


A Study in Slavery

by sweetinsane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Child Abuse, Dark, Dehumanization, Domestic, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, M/M, Master/Slave, Post-A Study In Pink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 77,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetinsane/pseuds/sweetinsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never owned a slave of his own, but after returning from Afghanistan is awarded one with his pension. A disobedient male slave with way too much troubling history, however, is not what he would have chosen himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love slavery fics, but usually John tends to be the slave. I wanted to reverse that without making Sherlock's enslavement a sudden change in their life, nor did I want to make him a brainwashed sex slave. John is also often portrayed as someone firmly against slavery, and that is something I want to do a little differently, too. Apart from that, I just really want to explore what the world might be like, should slavery be a common thing.
> 
> Consider this warning before reading: within the world of this AU (and it is a dark world) slaves are treated and seen as less than human beings, and are very casually abused. The characters who are free do not see anything wrong with this –and this includes John. It also isn't a story about ending slavery.
> 
> If you prefer, you can also read this fic on [fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10160074)

John Watson had never owned a slave in his life. They had a family slave when he and Harry were children, but by the time John had been six years old, her health had gone downwards from old age and she’d been put down soon after. They never bought another slave. Couldn't afford one, John himself couldn’t afford one once he had moved out. Then he'd joined the army, still unable to afford one, but also entirely unable to maintain one. Not that he had ever really wanted one, not that he thought he should have one. To own a slave would be a life utterly in his hands. And John, given his somewhat...unfortunate history with slaves before the army didn’t feel confident about having such responsibility.

He had, of course, met and worked with plenty of slaves during his life. He’d used slaves just like any normal citizen would. Slaves were, after all, an essential part of everyday life no matter where you went. Well, almost at least, if one didn’t count the few strange hippie countries that had outlawed slavery. It was a miracle their economy survived.

There had been slaves at the kindergarten and the schools he went, there were slaves at the university and there certainly were slaves in the army to “keep company” to the soldiers. But never had he owned a slave of his own.

Well, apparently he was about to now.

He had read the letter through several times, just to be sure he understood it right. And thus Captain John Hamish Watson, as the letter addressed him, now nervously stood at one of the front doors of the Greater London Institute of Slavery, an enormous building complex with offices, reception areas, waiting rooms and most importantly the holding centres where unowned slaves owned by the monopoly of the Institute were kept, trained, bred and grown. InS was responsible for the popular monthly slave auction within its compounds, and it held the title of the largest slave market in Europe. John leant to his cane, holding the letter in his free hand, attempting to figure exactly where he was supposed to go.

”Can I be of use, sir?”

John turned his head to see a door slave standing in the doorway. As was to be expected of his kind, the man was well over his fifties, but eager to help him find his way in the building complex.

”Uh, yes”, John replied and limped through the door the slave kept opened for him. ”I'm here to collect a slave.”

The man smiled at him. ”Aren't you all, sir?”

Technically John could have whacked man with his cane for being clever with him, but he just handed the slave his letter. ”I've got this.”

The slave gave the document a quick look and then hurried to open the inner doors for him. ”Second floor reception. The lifts are over there, sir”, he pointed as he spoke. ”Take a queuing number, it’s sixth button, and just sit to wait.”

John thanked the slave. When the lift's doors opened, he found himself in a cozy reception area with large windows, green sofas and a handful of potted plants. There were at least thirty people in the room, a few of them with slaves. He eyed the ticket machine. Button number one said “auctions”, number two “lost property”. The sixth read “pensions”, so John pushed it and received a ticket with F135 printed on it.

It took nearly an hour before the LED board chimed and his number appeared on it, instructing him to room number 12.

”Hi, John Watson”, he greeted once he'd closed the door behind him. ”Collecting a slave.”

”Yes, I gather that from the fact that you are here”, the woman whose office he had entered said. She stood up to shake his hand. ”Joan Bruce. Please, have a seat.”

John took the invitation and sat in an armchair as she sat back on her seat as well on the other side of the desk. He smiled at her, but she didn't smile back, just typed, presumably his name. Though there ought to be dozens of John Watsons in London. He handed the document over the table and Ms Bruce took it without saying a word.

”First slave?”, she commented after ten seconds of more typing and clicking.

John licked his upper lip. He wondered if they did any background checks on new slave owners. ”That obvious?”

She looked at him pointedly, like a person who dealt with similar situations on daily basis. ”Yes. Also helps that there are no previous ownership records in the national database.”

”Oh. Right.”

Silence fell between them for nearly a minute as she kept working on her computer. The phone on the table started ringing, but she never answered it. John tried to occupy himself by looking at the framed picture of Mt. Fuji on the wall.

”So, a war hero?” Ms Bruce finally inquired pleasantly as the printer on the side table started printing.

”Apparently, yes”, John admitted reluctantly. After a few seconds of silence he added, for the sake of conversation: ”I didn't know they were giving slaves to veterans these days.”

”Only for the decorated ones, and even them only if someone applies for them to get one. Apparently your heroic actions awarded you one.” She glanced at the printer, unconsciously stroking her wavy black hair behind her ear. She was wearing large silver leaf earrings. ”Whatever it is you did.”

”I saved a friend’s life.”

”Good for you.”

John felt a sting of bitter anger at her dry remark. What did she know?

Ms Bruce reached for the printer and then handed him the paper. “Please check that all your personal information is correct and then sign here.”

“And that's it?” John asked, but his surprise was drowned under the annoyance he’d started to feel towards the woman.

“There’ll be a few other documents you need to sign after I’ve brought the slave, but that's it”, she confirmed. “Are you familiar with the slave rights?”

“Yes, of course.” He eyed at the document and quickly signed it without really reading it.

“Good. But, just because it is my job to remind you: six meals a week is the minimum. There’s more information about the exact calories on the pamphlet. Causing permanent injuries is forbidden and a slave must be allowed a reasonable amount of sleep. Again, the pamphlet has some ideas of discipline. An injured or ill slave must be allowed enough time to recover. After all, a healthy slave is a useful slave”, she recited like she was trying to sell toothpaste on TV. Even her enthusiastic smile with a row of whitened teeth matched the image in his head.

”That should pretty much cover it, but a copy of the actual slave rights act is with the papers you receive. I suggest you read it carefully. Your slave’s ID is 99OR-79/3J3A. I'll print out its papers and you can give these”, she began, handing him the said slave rights act, the newest copy of monthly _Possessions_ magazine published by InS and something called _The Handbook of a New Slave Owner_ , “a quick look while I collect your new property.”

John inwardly grimaced at the description. Most people referred to slaves as him or her when their sex was clear, but there were always those who preferred “it”. She obviously had the slave's paperwork on her screen, so she fell into the latter category. But perhaps it came with the line of work.

He didn’t get to choose, but considering the circumstances, he was quite positive it would be a female. He was an invalided soldier. They probably thought he needed someone gentle to take care of him. Not that he was complaining. He imagined a young blonde, girl-next-door type of a slave. A little shy, but eager to please and make a good first impression on her new owner. There would be sex tonight. John didn’t waste time on thinking he’d be the slave’s first owner, but he actually preferred it that way. His thoughts drifted to the dark skinned slave girl back in Afghanistan. Her name...John wasn’t sure if she’d had a name. Whatever the soldier chose, probably. She’d liked John, had been sad to see him leave. John regretted he’d been too much in physical pain to have one last night with her.

Ms Bruce got up and the printer behind her started working again. ”Make yourself comfortable. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes.”

She disappeared through a back door that locked itself automatically behind her. John glanced at the clock on the wall and for the lack of anything better to do began reading.

* * *

99OR-79/3J3A hadn't been born a slave despite being one for most of his life. He used to be a human being. His name had been William Sherlock Scott Holmes. His parents were of a wealthy background. His mother a celebrated mathematician, his father an artist. They had owned several slaves themselves. He had lived in a nice country house with his family until... Well. One wrong word uttered at the wrong moment had been enough to change that. But that was all far in the past now, none of it could be undone.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The holding room seemed uncharacteristically spacious due to the natural light pouring in from the small windows. It was a sunny day out there. He'd been to rooms with a layout identical to this one before, but it was his first time in a room with a window. Usually he'd been held in the underground rooms or on the other side of the corridors where the windowless rooms were just as dark. He didn't even need to share the four bed room after his “flat mate” had been taken away eight days ago. How lucky of him.

He stretched his arms the best he could while lying on the lower bunk before sitting up and twisting his neck until it gave a satisfying crack.

Bored. So _fucking_ bored.

He had been in the holding centre for almost two full weeks now and it would still be nine days until the famed monthly auction. Damn master and mistress Summers for handing him over so far from the auction day. Damn InS for not putting him for sale publicly. It worried him. Why hadn’t they put him on sale yet? Did they think he was worth more if sold at the auction? Didn’t seem very likely given what must have been written on his file.

Damn mistress Summers. He hadn’t even done anything wrong, not this time, not after Florida. When master Summers had purchased him little over a year ago, it had been a relief. And he’d sworn to himself this was the last time. He hadn’t exactly embraced his new life with his new owners, but he’d decided he was tired of trying to escape it. Pursuing freedom wasn’t worth it, not if it wasn’t one hundred percent certain to happen. He’d sworn himself he wouldn’t risk it, wouldn’t risk his life, sworn himself he’d behave. And he had. For little over a year he’d been as good as he could. It had taken him _effort_. A fucking year of near picture perfect slave and then his mistress sold him because she grew bored of him?

It wasn’t fair. A year of tolerating her stupid kinks and playing along and she got _bored_? He’d been bored ever since setting his feet into her house, but he hadn’t complained. Much. And then one day she just said she was bored and wanted to sell him and buy someone else!

He looked at the mattress above him. If today was indeed Thursday 21st of January, it would be his twenty-third anniversary as a slave in little over two weeks. How time had flown. If he were to close his eyes, he could still easily recall his first night in a cell identical to this.

Sherlock glanced at the narrow window near the ceiling. He would’ve begged on the floor to be let out in fresh air had he thought it would be any help. He had hardly been out of this room. Given his ill temperament, he hadn’t been sent to train younger slaves or do any kind of work, not even when in his boredom he had asked to be given something useful to do. He was nearing the point where he would willingly attempt something incredibly stupid during the next time he'd be herded to the showers if it weren't for the fact that he knew from experience that such an attempt would only get him tied to the bed. And then he'd be guaranteed to end up going completely insane out of the frustrating lack of anything interesting.

He swung himself to the top bunk in an urgent need to just _do_ something. Besides, he couldn't properly see out without sitting on the top bunk. At this point he was desperate enough to stare at the little strip of blue sky and the wall of the opposite building visible behind the glass. Seeing even a glimpse of a bird or something else that _moved_ would be better than the grey walls or the back of a mattress above him.

“Bored..!” he groaned out loud when he heard approaching footsteps from the corridor. Maybe they would hear and even bang the door while they passed by. “BORED!”

The footsteps paused behind his door. He jumped down upon hearing a distinctive beep of the card reader and the electronic locks unlocking. The floor guard must have really had a bad day for bothering to actually open the door. Sherlock could hardly hide his grin while kneeling on the floor like he was supposed to. Couple of blows with the baton and he'd have at least _something_ to distract himself from this boredom. He would welcome the adrenalin rush with open arms if it could bring some change to this ever predictable dullness of the holding centre, where each day was followed by an identical one.

But it wasn't the floor guard alone. Instead a woman about his age, dressed in a grey skirt and a purple jacket stood in the doorway. The floor guard who had opened the door waited behind her in the corridor.

 _Single, two big dogs, owns a nearsighted, right handed slave, had fruit salad for breakfast, office job_ , his brain supplied and then: _oh, I’ve been passed to a new owner_. Either someone who knew him had bought him (unlikely, no one had ever bought him outside an auction or the market hall) or he had randomly been chosen from the slaves available.

Some kind of lottery winner, perhaps? A slave among gift vouchers and cars wasn’t an unusual prize. Sherlock shouldn’t have kept looking at her, but he did, since most people found it unnerving to have a slave stare at them like a free person.

“99OR-79/3J3A”, she read from a small tablet’s screen without bothering to look at him. “Change immediately and follow me. You’re leaving.” She clearly had already gone through his file for she added: “ _Again_.”

Sherlock rose, pulled the blue tee shirt over his head and let the dark grey sweatpants along with his underwear drop on the floor before stepping out of them. He used his bare foot to lift them, gathered all the clothes in his arms and exchanged them with the floor guard for an ill-fitting dressing gown: too short, but hanging loose on his narrow shoulders.

Once they were out and the door had been closed behind them, the guard shoved him a black duffle bag containing all his possessions. Sherlock threw it over his shoulder and followed the woman, nodding a goodbye with a grin to the guard. The man narrowed his eyes in obvious distaste and grabbed his arm violently.

“You better behave yourself”, he warned. “Because you’re lucky, you know. Your number’s already on the list. They would’ve dispatched you after the auction if you were left unsold. And I see to it personally that you’ll end up on that list again if ever find out you’ve been thrown back to this facility.”

“Duly noted, sir”, Sherlock replied, wrenching his arm free. “I believe my new owner is waiting.”

He hissed in pain when the guard thwacked the side of his head. “You’re complete waste of money and you’ve been given far too many chances already.”

Sherlock had to bite his tongue not to say anything. It wouldn’t do him well to anger the man. If he ended up with a bloody nose, the slave handler who had come to collect him might have him changed for another one. Then he’d definitely end up to the death row he hadn’t even known he’d been on already.

“You are correct, sir”, he said quietly, bowing down his head.

“Keep that attitude and they might keep you. Move it.”

Sherlock let the man shove him away. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Enough chatter, you’re lagging”, his handler called from the lift. She didn’t hit him. She didn’t need to. One brush of her shocker on his shoulder and Sherlock was on his knees, biting back a whimper.

“Quiet”, she ordered. “Not a word unless he wants to hear you speak. You’re a troublemaker and probably should’ve been dispatched a long time ago. You aren’t worth your own paperwork.”

* * *

John hadn’t even bothered to open the pamphlet containing the full slave rights. He was familiar enough with them. The new owner’s handbook hadn’t seemed very interesting either, so he settled for flipping through the pages of the magazine. _Possessions_ was the largest and most popular publication in Britain aimed for slave owners. InS funded most of it, and naturally tried to make as much money out of it as possible. It included a four page sneak peek of the monthly auction, so people were actually able to start bidding for the best slaves even before the actual auction day. The auction itself was an ancient tradition, even though slaves here were on sale every day of the week.

Apart from the obvious self-advertising it was like any other slave mag. The articles gave advices ( _10 creative ways to discipline your slave_ ), covered the latest hot topics ( _Medical testing on all terminally ill slaves, yes or no? Experts answer on page 22!_ ), interacted with the readers ( _AmazingElli asks:”My slave gets hysterical around dogs. Nothing seems to help. What should I do?”_ ) and offered fashion tips ( _Season’s hottest trends to make your slave stand out_ ).

The printer had silenced seven minutes ago and John wondered if he could just go and pick the documents himself, when Ms Bruce returned with a man heeling her.

_A man._

John’s jaw dropped in disappointment. She led the slave to his side of the desk, picking up the prints on her way. The slave stopped near the wall, carefully lowering a duffle bag to the floor.

John stood up as well, feeling uneasy with everyone else standing. But seriously, _a man_?

“Here it is, Mr Watson”, she announced unnecessarily, tugging the slave’s sleeve. He yanked his arm away from her, undid the sash and shrugged the robe off his shoulders, letting it fall around his feet.

“Prime condition, as you can see”, she hurried to say, hastily making the man turn around a full circle. “Just turned thirty-three, excellent health despite it’s been two years in America”, she read from her tablet.

“No tendencies for falling ill and naturally it has passed all our health checks and its vaccinations are in order. Would you like to have a look at the teeth? Prostate? Erection?” she offered, picking up a box of disposable latex gloves from the shelf.

“Er, no thanks, I trust everything’s alright.”

John gave the slave a brief look from head to toe. He was tall, taller than John, but then again, it wasn’t a big achievement. He was a few years younger than John and looked the part, had a curly black hair, pale skin, piercing blue eyes and it was very clear he had been fully shaven some time ago. He had scars on his back, so John wouldn’t have called him “prime condition”. John quickly settled for his face. It wasn’t a bad face, but quite far from what he had been hoping for. He wouldn’t have said the face was unpleasant, but there was definitely something alien about it. Alien in a weird, handsome way. But it was a male. The slave’s jaw was tense and he stared intensively at the wall behind his to be master. John thought he really ought to say something. Maybe he could still get a female if he opened his mouth now. Ms Bruce looked at him as if expecting him to say something, and when he didn’t, she pushed the slave’s shoulder down and hissed: “Floor.”

Sherlock, who so far hadn’t said any of the sixteen remarks that had crossed his mind obeyed, albeit a bit slower than he should have. He knelt, leant his forehead against the floor and brought his hands before his head where they could be seen. No matter how many times he kowtowed, it was always humiliating. It didn’t help to be completely naked, but it was customary since the Roman Empire for a buyer to be able to fully see all parts of the potential property. He briefly entertained the idea of commenting on some of the “cosmetic errors” left on his body the woman had tactically failed to mention, but decided against it. She _did_ have the baton after all, and he preferred to be able to properly walk when he’d finally get out of here. And despite his natural instincts to rebel, he had no desire to sabotage his sale if the alternative was possible execution after the auction.

A shiver ran through his body, but it had nothing to do with how he felt about the situation. He was fine with being shown like this as long as he kept his mind occupied with something else. The floor was cool and felt cold against his skin. He was cold, he could feel the hair rise on his arms in response to the sensation. Sherlock rested his forehead against the linoleum and closed his eyes in an attempt to relax. The two free people in the room kept talking as if he wasn’t even there. How he _hated_ it.

“It comes with a standard ID chip on the left arm. It has a GPS tracker that can be accessed online. I’ll enclose your log-in information for our online services with the contracts. It’s covered by the basic insurance automatically. However, in this case I would _strongly_ recommend you to get a proper insurance that covers more than the absolute musts.”

Sherlock felt like sighing in annoyance. The soldier who was to become his new owner sounded puzzled: “Why do you say that?”

“I read its file”, she replied, but hurried to continue: “There’s nothing wrong with the file or the slave.”

“It says he's property of the InS”, his to-be owner said, rustling the prints.

“Initially, yes, but that’s the case with nearly all of the slaves _The Institution_ handles”, she said, emphasising her correction. Typical from an InS worker to frown upon the abbreviation everyone else but themselves were using.

“All the rights concerning the body will be moved to you, of course”, the woman continued to explain. Sherlock had heard these lines every time when sold, ever since he was twenty-three.

“So what does it mean, then?”

“Well, we can’t remove it from you or anything. The first three years are a trial period of a kind.”

This part Sherlock hadn’t heard before, so he listened carefully what being a pension legally meant for him and his new owner.

“If this item doesn’t suit you, you can request it to be changed for another slave during that time. After three years there will still be a period of two years when it can’t be sold privately. Basically, if after three years you decide you don’t want to keep it, you can hand it back to The Institution and The Institution will compensate you, but won’t give you another slave anymore. If after five years you still want to keep it, the resell rights will be handed to you as well.”

“Right. Alright.”

“However...”

The next part Sherlock knew well.

“It most likely doesn't concern you, but this item cannot sign the so called “emancipation” contract before two-thousand and...” she rustled the papers for reference, “thirty-two.”

Sherlock already knew this. John, however, felt slightly uneasy. _Now_ would be a _really_ great moment to say he actually really, really would prefer a female. Especially after that. He didn’t want an ill-behaving slave. He wouldn’t trust himself with a slave like that.

“Why not? Not that I was planning on freeing him or anything...” It felt a little bad to say so in front of the slave in question. He was only vaguely aware of what an emancipation contract actually meant apart from the obvious: a contract between the legal owner and the slave where the owner agreed to free the slave. He imagined the conditions of such contract to be extremely strict. The owner could not back away from it easily, so the contracts weren’t very popular as far as he knew.

Ms Bruce all but rolled her eyes. “Personally, I don't understand why anyone would free a born-a-slave, or even a class C slave like this one here”, she huffed. “They can’t adapt to the society. They only become a burden for the real, tax paying people like us.”

John turned to briefly look at the man crouching on the floor, not commenting her words. The man was skinny and pale, but not in a way he’d seen abused slaves being skinny. He wasn’t malnourished. Just regularly skinny like a slave. He clearly had muscles, but he could also see the man’s spine visibly sticking out from his back. The scars didn’t stand out much from the pale skin, but they were scars and there were lot of them. If they weren’t caused by an abusive owner, they were unquestionably a bad sign. There were only so many reasons for a slave to be legally caused such wounds.

“So, why the deadline?” he asked instead, turning his attention back to the woman.

She grimaced slightly. “There was some trouble with it in the past, apparently. An escapee and foul-mouthed. I suppose that's why they picked it an owner like you. It needs more discipline than an average slave to stay in line.”

“Oh.” John couldn’t figure out anything more to say. He wasn’t sure if he was that kind of an owner or if he even knew how to be a slave owner in general. Perhaps it was a silly way to think about it, but it felt like an enormous responsibility to have a slave. This man would belong to him within minutes and John would then almost literally hold his life in his hands. He had certain duties towards his property enforced by the law, but otherwise he could do whatever he wanted to this man.

He could have him scrub the floors, cook for him, give him a massage, wash his clothes, do the shopping, have sex with him. Initially, it was up to John when and where the slave would sleep, when he could use the bathroom, where he could sit or stand and when he could talk or whether he’d be allowed to have his own opinions. Every word the slave said and every talent he might possess would belong to John. It was a strange and slightly terrifying thought.

“Well, if you don’t have any questions...” Ms Bruce prompted. Last chance to get the slave switched.

 _I would really rather have another one, please_ he was meant to say, but instead he found entirely different set of words coming out of his mouth: “Right, no. No, I think that pretty much covered it.”

“Good!” She nudged the man on the floor with her shoe. “Up. Get dressed.”

The slave sat on his legs and started pulling out clothes from the bag he had with him, while the woman beckoned John to the desk. “If you would then just sign here and here, please?”

John eyed the documents, still not really caring enough to fully read them, still thinking he ought to cancel this and scribbled his name at the bottom. She signed them as well, added an official looking purple InS stamp on them and enclosed the other one to the archives at the back wall, and the other together with the slave’s file.

Behind him, the slave had got up and was pulling a shirt over his head, silently eying at his new master. Just when John got the newly acquired papers safely closed to his bag the slave slipped into a surprisingly expensive looking dark coat and bent over to pick up the duffle bag and the dressing gown. Without a word he placed the latter one on the desk and bowed to his handler. She didn’t acknowledge the gesture in slightest and kept her eyes fixed on John, who smiled for the lack of better response.

“Please read the file carefully. And I can’t stress enough how important it is that you read the slave rights and laws that concern you as a private slave owner. You can always give a call to our service number in case something comes up.”

“Alright. Thanks. It's...going to be handy to have a slave around, I guess.”

“I should hope so”, she said, giving a meaningful glance at the man in question. The younger man turned to John, bowing deeply for several seconds to acknowledge him as his new master, before throwing the bag over his shoulder and striding to open the door.

“Goodbye, Mr Watson. Enjoy your new property.”

* * *

He still thought he ought to turn around and return the slave when they stepped out of the building. The slave followed John in silence to the bus stop, only a few paces behind him. The previous bus had just left, John could see it waiting at the traffic lights, but the next one pulled to the stop within a minute. They climbed in and just when John swiped his brand new Oyster card, an alarm went off at the doors behind him.

“No slaves on the bus”, the driver called, his voice dull and monotone, as if it was something he had to repeat at every second stop.

“What?” John blurted. Behind him the slave stepped out and the alarm silenced. Of course, he'd forgotten that most buses didn’t take slaves. In his defense, it wasn’t something he had ever needed to think about before. And he hadn’t been in London for a long time. Too bad the slave had an ID chip, otherwise they might have got away with this as long as the slave had kept his left wrist hidden.

“You’ve got to wait for the next bus that takes slaves”, the driver explained. “Or your slave can follow you later. But this is non-slave turn.”

“I can’t do that, I just got him. He doesn’t even know where I live.”

“Then get off the bus, please, and wait for the next bus that accepts slaves.”

“When’s the next one?”

The driver sighed. “There are several on this route, there’s one driving right before me, you just missed it.”

“But this is InS!” John exclaimed. Of course there would be people wanting to come and go with slaves!

The driver merely sighed again. “Are you getting on or are you getting off?”

“Fine”, John sighed and stepped out to accompany his new property. The doors hissed closed in front of him and the bus took off. _Just my luck_ , he thought while checking his watch. Knowing the buses, there was no guarantee of when the next one that accepted slaves would come. He wouldn’t have time to wait if he wanted to make it home and have some time before his job interview. He still needed to fix some parts of his CV. Waiting at InS had taken considerably more time than he had thought and Ella had practically forced him to look for a job.

There were two reasons for why he didn’t want to use the tube. First was that the nearest station to his flat wasn’t exactly near, not when you had to use a cane with a sometimes painful limp. The second was the slave.

He’d just been told the man had a history of attempted escapes. What wouldn’t be a better chance to try again than the tube? They would need to go to separate cars and all the slave would have to do would be to get off at a wrong station. When (and it was definitely _when_ ) he’d get caught, he could just say he hadn’t tried to escape. That he just mistook the station because he had just been given to a new owner.

“I guess we'll just need to get a cab”, he admitted his defeat, already silently counting how much it would cost him and then realised he had forgotten to ask for refund for the bus drive he hadn’t taken. Several cabs drove by, but none of them stopped.

The slave lifted his eyebrow, but still said nothing. Instead he stepped to the roadside and like a miracle, a taxi stopped at his hail. He smirked at John’s astonished face and swung the door open.

John got in and while he advised the driver of his address, the slave walked around the car to get in as well. He placed his bag on the empty middle seat, eying at his new owner curiously.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he suddenly asked when the cab pulled back into the forenoon traffic.

It was the first time John heard the slave speak and he was startled by the sudden, odd question. “What?”

The slave’s jaw tightened and he repeated: “Afghanistan or Iraq, _master_?”

“No, that’s not what I– Afghanistan...”

The slave nodded and there was a moment of silence before John turned to look at him. “How did you–”

“Obvious”, the slave interrupted. “I know I wasn’t bought, so either I'm a prize or part of your pension. Your conversation while I knelt on the floor confirmed the pension, but I had already picked up you were a soldier. You are very tanned, so clearly you’ve spent time abroad recently, but the tan line ends at your wrists and neck, so you weren’t there for the sun. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. So there, a soldier. Now, not everyone receives a slave with their pension. You are young, clearly you were forced to leave the army. Something must have happened and you must have committed some heroic act to be awarded like this. You were injured, but perhaps you saved someone.

Your limp is bad when you walk, but you had no problem with it while standing when you weren’t paying attention to it. Your therapist says it’s psychosomatic, which I’m afraid is true, but you were injured nevertheless and relieved, thus pension it indeed is. Now, where can a military man get himself injured these days? Simple: Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John’s first reaction was irritation for being interrupted, but as the slave kept speaking in an endless flow of words, seemingly without stopping to breathe at all, John couldn’t helped but to listen in awe. Once he stopped, John stared at him and he stared back with unwavering blue eyes.

“That…” John started when he felt like being able to make a complete, coherent sentence again, “was amazing.”

It was the slave’s turn to look shocked. “Really..?”

“Yes. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That's not what people usually say…” the slave muttered, still looking a bit stunned by John's reaction and burrowing his brows deeply as if he couldn't comprehend the logic behind his words.

“What do people usually say?” John inquired, genuinely curious.

The slave smirked, but the faked smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Shut your mouth or I’ll find better use for it.”

John laughed nervously. “Oh…”

He felt like saying sorry, but honestly, who apologised to a slave? So this slave had been used to perform oral sex, so what? Plenty of people had sex with their slaves. In fact, all people with slaves had sex with their slaves. He shouldn’t feel bad or uneasy about it. He’d known this one had had more than one previous owner, _of course_ he had been made to have sex at some point. He had been shaved clean just a few weeks ago, he’d clearly been someone’s bed slave. None of that should matter as far as the slave was healthy, and he was, they all went through extensive health checks before being sold.

John bit the inside of his lip, feeling ridiculous. Hell, _he_ had had sex with slaves in Afghanistan. Why did he care about this slave’s sexual history? It’s wasn’t like he had planned on having sex with his new property, anyway. Not now that it was a man instead of a woman. Besides, like many people from families who couldn’t afford a slave, he had always thought that an actual loving and willing person would make much better company in the bed. The “real men don’t need slaves to get laid” attitude. In the army there really hadn’t been other choices to have sex, and the bed slaves had been quite willing partners indeed.

_Uh..._

Why were his thoughts even going down this trail? He glanced at the slave from the corner of his eye, but the man was facing the window. John concentrated on the advertisements at the back of the front seats in silence, letting their exchange play through his head again. Everything the slave said was true and it seemed logical now that it was explained, but he couldn’t see how anyone could notice all that and put it together like this. Except...

“How did you know I have a therapist?”

The slave didn’t turn to look at him. “You have a psychosomatic limp, _of course_ you have a therapist.”

“Of course...” John muttered, regarding the man silently. After a while he spoke again: “So... I don’t think I caught your name yet?”

The slaves official papers only mentioned his ID-number, which John couldn’t recall, not that it was a proper name anyway. Though naturally, a master could call their slave whatever they wished, but most people gave slaves actual names that stuck with them even if they changed owners. Some named them like pets and apparently many named their bed slaves by actors or characters they fancied. Some even gave names that were insults and not for children’s ears. John had no interest in making up names if the slave already had a name he preferred.

“Nine-nine-oh-ar-hyphen-seven-nine-slash-three-jay-three-a”, the slave recited quickly from memory, without needing to check his wrist where the ID was permanently tattooed, like a half of some kind of a bizarre wristband. His stigma, as the tattoo was commonly called.

“Uh, no, I meant like a proper name. Anything you prefer?”

“You’re my master now, it’s within your rights to name me as you please”, the slave countered, still talking to the window rather than him.

“Well I don’t feel like naming you. You weren’t born a slave, you definitely have a name.”

The younger man shrugged his narrow shoulders. “My previous mistress chose to call me _Ravenhair_. She was into books about pale, sparkling vampires”, he explained with distaste. “I had to read them to be able to get in character for her. I’ve deleted it now. Master initially just referred to me as “the pale one”. Probably an insult to mistress’s...hobby. “Darling, get the pale one to warm the bed.” “Pale one, do the dishes.” “Pale one, clean the cat’s litter box””, he imitated. “Her version was the one to stick, eventually.”

John snorted. “I'm not calling you that..! Come on, I'm _ordering_ you to give me a proper name.”

The slave sighed silently, finally turning to face him. “Holmes”, he said like it was the last thing he wanted to say out loud. Strange, one would imagine that normally a slave would have been happy to have decent name instead of something like Strawberry, Cocklicker or...Ravenhair.

“My name is Holmes.”

“That’s not a bad name at all. Alright, Holmes it is. I’m John.”

Holmes’s face was unimpressed. There was something about his piercing eyes that made even a soldier like John feel a little uneasy. Not that he was planning on letting Holmes know that, so he held his gaze until the slave shrugged and turned to the window again. It was about power balance, he could tell. For some reason years in enslavement hadn’t made him submissive and John had seen it immediately when the man had been brought in to the office. The way he’d stood and stared at the wall, enduring the humiliating process without batting an eye, even mildly defying the handler. Most slaves on sale kept their head bowed down and were uneasy unless they were primarily bed slaves or even actual sex slaves, used to the nakedness even in public. Holmes, on the other hand, was clearly already testing his new master, trying to intimidate him with his unslave-like behaviour.

John huffed at the thought. He was the master and Holmes would need to remember his place. Surely the man couldn’t be as difficult as the Ms Bruce the handler had seemed to suggest. He’d been a slave since he was a child. He must have had adjusted to his role in the society by now.

They sat in silence for the rest of the drive. Holmes followed him patiently while he limped the stairs painfully slowly to reach his flat.

“Right, here we are. Bathroom’s here, kitchen’s over there”, John explained with a wave of his free left hand. “Just leave your stuff somewhere where it’s not in the way. I’ll figure out where you can put it later”, he planned, handing his coat to the slave. “Brew me a cup of tea for starters, I have to print out some CVs.”

“Yes, master.”

Sherlock hanged the coat, watching his new owner limp to a desk and then gently lowered his bag on the floor, next to the wall. The flat was small, void of almost all personal items. The furniture was cheap and kept to minimum. His master sat down and pulled a laptop from the drawer.

Right, off to work then. The kettle was easy enough to spot, but he needed to rummage the cupboards to find a cup and the tea (bags, no loose leaves, but Dr Watson didn’t seem to own proper tea, so there was little actual brewing involved). There was milk in the fridge, but he couldn’t locate any sugar cubes, just regular sugar.

“How do you take your tea, master?” he asked, just to be sure, as the printer went off. The man turned to look at him like he'd forgotten Sherlock was there. Which wasn’t an unusual situation –he was a slave, after all.

“Milk, no sugar.”

Sherlock faked a smile and nodded with equally faked enthusiasm. Well, at least he wanted to tell himself it was fake. His sudden eagerness to serve wasn’t entirely an act. After the weeks spent within the same four walls, where only meal a day and a shower three times a week had distracted his routine of absolutely nothing happening, nearly anything to do was welcome. Even if it was to serve a new master.

Besides, he reasoned, it was just another new owner, another new idiot to serve. If he’d just play his cards well now, then who knows, life might be interesting for a little while. So he smiled, fished out the teabag, threw it away, poured the milk and stirred the hot beverage while walking. He put it down on the desk to his new master’s left-hand side and eyed at the computer screen over his shoulder. The browser was opened on a blogging site. _Dr. John H. Watson…_ The latest entry was from yesterday: _How?_ said the title. _How do I delete this?_ The task bar showed one opened document titled ’CV’.

“Thanks”, Dr Watson muttered. After sipping the tea and a while of silence he added: “I guess you could do the dishes next.”

Sherlock's lips twitched, but none of his dislike towards the task was audible in his dutiful “yes, master”. There weren’t a lot of them anyway. Just a couple of spoons in different sizes, two forks, a knife, three mugs and a plate. His master seemed to prefer take away straight from the package. He took his time nevertheless. He’d much rather wash cutlery than a toilet on his first day in his new home.

He’d been on his new task for several minutes when Dr Watson put away the laptop and started to get ready to leave, so Sherlock temporarily abandoned the dishes to help the jacket on the ex-army doctor.

“I’ll be back by half five. Just…” John shrugged helplessly. “I don't know, make yourself familiar with the room and do…whatever it is you do. And, um… Have me something to eat by the time I’m back.”

“Yes, master.”

Sherlock waited for the door to close behind his owner and listened in silence for a while. A genuine smile crept on his face and he couldn’t help but to make a little victorious jump out of excitement. He was alone and unsupervised. Time to get some fresh air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistakes, English is not my first language. I'll be updating the tags and characters as they come along.
> 
> Please be aware that there are spoilers for the later chapters in the comments of this chapter.
> 
> (no, I absolutely do not find slavery acceptable in the real world)


	2. Chapter 2

John felt exhausted as he later limped up the stairs back to his flat.

"Ah, master, welcome home!" Holmes smiled and quickly helped John out of his jacket. "Was your job hunt successful?"

"I hope so..." he muttered, not really meaning what he said. He felt indifferent.

 _I guess I could get used to this..._ he mused as Holmes handed him back his cane and put away his jacket. Hopefully the slave had managed to prepare something nice. John was starving. He knew his cupboards were practically empty, but there should have been enough ingredients for spaghetti with vegetables or a sauce or something. That or maybe an experimental pizza.

However, the sight that waited on the table was far from either.

"Is this a joke?" he gaped, gesturing at the table with his free hand. Because if it was, it wasn't very funny and John was not on a humorous mood. "Is this your idea of dinner? Cereals..? FUCKING CEREALS?"

Holmes flinched at his sudden outburst, emphasised with a violent tap at the floor with the cane. He hastily placed the milk carton he'd been about to open on the table and dropped on his knees, face towards the floor.

"Fuck, sorry, sorry", John automatically hurried to apologise and explain. "I didn't mean to yell, it's just..." He gestured with his hand helplessly. "Just this leg. PTSD."

The slave said nothing and kept his eyes cast down, clearly bracing himself to be beaten. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the hell happened?"

"I meant to cook pasta, but I burnt the spaghetti", the man on the floor replied. "Master", he added quickly. When John said nothing, the slave continued to explain himself: "The cereals were just a quick fix, I didn't have time to start over. There's sauce, though it might have gone a bit cold..."

He lifted his head to look at him and placed an apologetic smile on his lips. "I could start over now, but I'll need to wash the–"

"Forget it", John interrupted, still angry. "You can have whatever's left of the pasta. Cereals, too, if you want. I'll go and get something from the Pakistani takeaway around the corner. Just clean up whatever mess you made first", he sighed, making a vague gesture towards the kitchenette.

"Yes, master", Holmes replied and after half a second added: "Thank you, master."

"Yeah, whatever... Won't take long."

Holmes got up and followed his limping master to the door, closing it behind him. When John came back after twenty-five minutes, the slave sat at the table, eating what apparently was what had remained edible of the pasta. At his arrival the slave swiftly got up to help him with the jacket once again, took the plastic bag and hurried to clear the table.

"No, it's okay", John said, following him to the room. "You can eat there. Two seats, plenty of room for both of us."

The slave looked at him with a dubious look on his face, but didn't argue. Instead, he pulled John a chair and made his way to get him a plate.

"Oh, you don't have to, I can eat from the–" John cut off his sentence in the middle. The slave looked at him over his shoulder, through the window in the wall between the kitchenette and the living space, already reaching for the cupboard.

 _I can eat from the package, less dishes_ , he'd been about to say. Stupid. He didn't need to worry about something like that anymore. He had a slave now. So instead he said: "It'd be...nice. Yeah."

The younger man nodded, proceeding with serving the take away on an actual plate.

"Shall I pour you a beer, master?" Holmes asked, setting the plate and cutlery on the table for John.

"Uh, yeah. Please."

Wow, it'd take some time to get used to being served all the time, even in his own home. Having a personal slave somehow felt quite different than being served by an army slave. Back in the army, only some of the higher ups had had personal slaves. It was great, though. Less limping for him. Which was precisely the idea, wasn't it?

Holmes brought him his drink and soundlessly sat back where he'd been sitting when John came back. The pasta indeed was a little darker in colour than it traditionally was supposed to be. Some looked like it had been soaked in the water for far too long, whereas some sounded like al dente gone wrong.

"What about the sauce?" John asked after a while of listening the uncooked spaghetti crunching in his slaves mouth. "You _did_ make sauce, right?"

"It's on the counter", Holmes replied. "Should be alright."

"You didn't want any? With the pasta, I mean?"

Holmes's eyebrows furrowed and he looked at John like he'd just been asked something completely irrational. In a way, John knew, he had. He shrugged: "I've no interest in starving you. It's not like I'm eating it now. I can have it tomorrow if there's any left, but you might as well have some now."

"Thank you", the man said, pushing the chair quickly back. He strode to the kitchenette with a few long steps and returned to the table after adding several spoonfuls of the sauce on his plate.

John watched the slave from the corner of his eye, who seemingly was fully concentrated on emptying his plate.

"You know...you should've just told me."

"Told you what?"

"That you can't cook. It's not like I'm going to flog you for that, if that's what you're afraid of. So, next time when there's something you really just can't physically do, just tell me. I mean, I didn't even read your file yet. I don't know where you've been before. I saw you were used as bed slave, but I just assumed you were a full time house slave."

"I _am_ a house slave", Holmes confirmed. "Mostly. But I'm not a cook. It's not very interesting."

"Interesting?" John huffed. What a very unslave-like thing to say.

The slave leant forward, bringing his long, slender fingers together in front of his face. "I find it hard to concentrate on tasks I don't find interesting."

"Do you often get to pick your tasks yourself?"

An emotion John had no time to name passed the slave eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by hard, intense stare. The slave tilted his head. "Of course not."

"Right... And how did you even manage to burn _pasta_?"

"It dropped on the stove from the shelf and was set alight by the gas."

John nearly choked on his beer. It shouldn't have been that funny, but for some reason it was, and before he knew it, he was laughing. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this. To his surprise, the slave joined in after a moment.

"I expect you to do better next time, though", he managed between giggles once the laughter started to settle. Holmes sobered immediately.

"Of course. Forgive me."

"Just don't make it a habit", he waved it off, still smiling.

Holmes didn't say anything for the rest of their dinner apart from thanking him yet again after he was done. John stared at his blog in an attempt to write a new entry, but ended up deleting each sentence he managed to start. In the end he just re-read all his previous entries, if they could have even been called that, and made a new entry with a single line: _Look Ella, I'm writing my blog..._

He could hear the slave in the kitchenette as he washed the dishes and wiped the surfaces. Some time later Holmes appeared to the doorway, hovering by the frames, uncertain of what he was supposed to be doing. It was understandable, of course. There were owners who didn't want to see or hear their slaves when they weren't needed, there were those who thought a slave should always be doing something and those who didn't really care what the slave did as long they did all they were told to do.

"You don't need to stand there" John told him. "I don't have anything for you to do right now. You can take nap on the bed if you want to."

John wasn't sure whether Holmes's reaction was a deep nod or a half arsed bow, but he went to the bed and fell down on it like a log. John surfed the web for the news and weather for another half an hour before closing the laptop into the drawer with his illegal firearm. As far as he could tell, Holmes hadn't moved an inch.

"I guess I'll take a look at your file then", he said, mainly for the sake of saying something.

"Mm", was the only reply he got.

"Right..."

Holmes's file was probably the longest he'd ever seen a slave have. And far more interesting than your average one.

"You have", John marveled, " _a driver's licence_?" It had been voided several years ago when he'd been handed to a new owner, but it could be renewed any time. This slave started to look more and more like a real bargain. So far he had been nothing but well behaved, polite and helpful if you didn't count the cooking fiasco. John couldn't see why the handler had had such a low opinion of Holmes. The more he had read the file that described the slave's qualities and abilities the more impressed he felt. His slave was in fact well educated.

"Yes", came a monotone reply from the bed. "A previous owner of mine needed a driver."

"Maybe I should save for a car, then…" John muttered. Even if he didn't have a car, it might be a good idea to pay for Holmes's licence renewal at some point. He kept reading. The file was divided in several sections. The first part contained the general information concerning the slave: ID-number (tattooed on the left wrist in numbers and letters, but also in bar code form, which was quite rare these days), sex, height, eye and hair colour, slavery status (C, which stood for "enslaved as a child", rather than B meaning "enslaved as an adult" or A "born as a slave"), number of previous owners (nine?!)…

Additional information stated he had an ID-chip with a GPS tracker installed in 2000. That was fairly late, especially considering what the handler said about him. He'd been listed as lost property between May 1996 and November 1999. He was forbidden to sign an emancipation contract until 1.1.2032, limit given for several attempted escapes and _attacking his owner_.

John frowned at Holmes, who was still lounging on the bed, eyes closed and fingertips pressed to his chin. He was surprised –no, he was _shocked_ Holmes still had the chance to be freed at some point. Attacking his owner could have very well taken away the privilege of having the right to ask for an emancipation contract for good. It could have led in deeming him dangerous and put down completely.

The next section described Holmes's physical aspects very much in the same way pedigree dogs were described: how his muscles were, the type of bone structure he had, the condition of his teeth and hair, which hand he preferred, medical history and also an embarrassingly figurative description of his sex organs and sexual performance. John skipped it entirely, not feeling like reading it while Holmes was less than ten feet away from him. Notes said Holmes had a sensitive fingers and scalp, which were considered a positive trait. After all, should he behave badly, those were excellent places to hurt him.

There was also a list of the personal possessions the slave 99OR-79/3J3A was allowed to keep. Or rather, all the items and accessories that came with the slave. Most of them were very much standard: several clothing items, shoes, the duffle bag he'd already seen, shaving equipment, comb and a toothbrush. But most notably it listed two items that were legally his property and which John would have absolutely no right to take from the slave or destroy them: an antique violin of uncounted value with a case and a Belstaff tweed coat worth over a thousand pounds. He turned to gape at the slave on the bed: "Your coat is worth over thousand pounds?"

"My sixth owner was quite generous and had a good taste", Holmes said, eyes still closed.

"Sounds like you got along well."

"We did."

"Yet you're here."

"Yet I am", the slave agreed.

John wanted to ask more, but said nothing. Holmes probably couldn't tell much, seeing he was duty bound to stay silent about his previous owners. But someone had certainly invested a lot in him. Someone had liked him enough to actually give him property.

However, as the official papers moved to describe his personality, it became less flattering. It did describe him as "a quick learner, accurate and precise, scientific, capable of independent work" and "resourceful", but most after that was highly negative. He was described to be "ignorant and slow to understand commands". His bad qualities contained "occasional rebelliousness and/or unwillingness to comply or serve, arrogance, insolence, apathy" and "lack of understanding his master's needs". It outright said Holmes was stupid.

He was described as a slave who needed "strict rules, control, physical work to keep him occupied" and "regular disciplining should unwanted behavior arise". It also stated that his owner should be "strong-willed, consistent, repressive, resolute and ready to provide physical disciplining". John could see why he was given to an ex-soldier. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for Holmes, John wasn't sure he was the kind of man the paper described.

He had, of course, disciplined slaves in the army, but it wasn't something he liked to do and many of his army mates had rolled their eyes and said he was going too easy on them. But it wasn't him going easy on them. It was him being careful with them. Slaves were human, too, and as a doctor he knew how fragile human beings could be. Especially since back in the army it was him who would have to waste time on patching them up if someone went too far.

And he never, ever wanted to see a slave die again because of the power free human beings had over their lives. And absolutely not by his hand.

John glanced at his watch. It was nearing ten already. He had an appointment with Ella at nine in the morning. Might as well go to sleep relatively early.

"Right. Time for us to go to bed, I guess", he said. "If you want to use the bathroom before it, do it now."

Holmes peered his eyes opened and got up in one swift motion. Right before disappearing into the bathroom, he stopped hesitantly and slowly turned back to look at John.

"Do you want me to shave?" the slave asked.

John blinked at him. "Uh, yeah, I guess I'd prefer you without a beard, but –"

"I wasn't talking about my face."

John felt himself blush as he gaped at the slave. "Wha– oh yes, right, of-of course. Yes."

Holmes nodded. "I won't take long."

"What, no, no!" John hurried to correct himself. "I meant "yes, I get what you mean", but no. No, you don't have to...shave yourself. No."

"Natural then", Holmes said with another nod. "I should perhaps mention that my previous mistress preferred me clean, so it's-" He swallowed and his eyes darted elsewhere for a second. "Well, you saw me. It'll grow back."

John could only gape at him.

"I...will go clean myself then."

John shook his head and stood up. "Holmes. I'm not–no. I _don't_ want to have sex with you."

The realisation dawned on the slave's face. "Oh. I...I'm sorry, master. I didn't mean to–." Holmes cleared his throat. John wasn't sure which one of them was more mortified.

"Usually a new owner, they want to- Well, they want to have a, uh, test ride. I didn't mean to sound like I _assumed_ it was my right to sleep or have sex with you. I'm sorry."

"You haven't offended me", John assured the slave. He sighed. "Look, I've got to see my therapist in the morning, and it's been a long day. Use the bathroom if you need to, and I'll see if I have anything that could be used to make you a bed."

"Yes, master." Holmes's shoulders relaxed and he looked relieved. Perhaps he'd thought he'd gone too far by assuming they'd be sharing the bed tonight. It hadn't even crossed John's mind, truth to be told. Even if they were to have sex, which definitely wasn't tonight, he didn't think he'd like the slave to stay in the same bed. Holmes certainly hadn't earned the privilege, and even if he had, John just didn't want to share his bed with another man, slave or not.

Truthfully, sending him to the bathroom had been just an excuse to get the slave out of the room while he changed into an old t-shirt and trousers he'd been using an pyjamas ever since his return to London. He really had no idea what to do with Holmes's bed. He didn't have any extra pillows or blankets, not to mention, a mattress, but despite the knowledge he was rummaging through his stuff when Holmes returned.

"I don't suppose you have anything that could be used to make a bed?" he inquired.

"I have my coat and the bag could be used as a pillow if I stuff it with something."

"Alright, do that. Take some of my clothes for the bag if you need. Yours I guess might not be enough."

The slave fetched his coat and started to unpack the duffle bag (damn, he'd need to figure a place for Holmes's stuff) while John took his turn in the bathroom. When he returned, Holmes knelt next to the fireplace, dressed in a worn t-shirt and pyjama trousers, his possessions other than clothes next to him on the floor in a messy pile, and the stuffed bag and coat on the other side.

"You can go to sleep", he permitted when the slaves eyes followed him to the bed. "Shut off the lights, will you? See you tomorrow."

The slave rose and the lights went off with a murmured: "Goodnight, master."

It was both comforting and unnerving to sleep in the same space with someone. He'd missed the knowledge of other people nearby during his lonely nights here in London. In Afghanistan they rarely got to sleep alone. It was too silent in here, and too noisy at the same time. The cars passing by and the drunkards on the streets from nearby pubs made it all wrong.

At the same time he dreaded the idea of Holmes in the same room. He knew well enough by now that he probably said things in his sleep, whimpered and cried, maybe even shouted or screamed. It wasn't something he'd like anyone to witness.

He looked across the room. His eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the dark, but he could make the shape of Holmes next to the fireplace, the coat pulled over his shoulders.

 _He's just a slave_ , John reminded himself. It shouldn't matter what he saw or heard. He was less than a pet, furniture, even. No one cared what slaves thought.

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep. As soon as he heard the doctor's breathing pattern turn into that of sleep, he straightened his legs and turned to lie on his back. He didn't even entertain the possibility of sneaking out tonight when he didn't yet know how heavy or light sleeper his new owner was. He wasn't feeling especially energetic, but neither did he feel tired. He had napped on the bed quite a while and if there was anything to do at the holding centre, it was sleeping.

He felt relieved, lying on the floor, but somehow inadequate as well. Sickeningly so. It was a feeling that belonged to the slave side of him, the part of him he wished to have nothing to do with. If Dr Watson didn't want to sleep with him, it was a _good_ thing. He loathed the small part of himself that thought he was a failure if his new master didn't want to have sex with his new property right away. Was it the cooking? Was he being punished? Getting to sleep in your master's bed was supposed to be a great privilege, wasn't it? It was often only awarded for the head slave of the house, or a personal slave. So since Dr Watson had directed him to take a nap on his bed, Sherlock had assumed... Well, not assumed he'd be "rewarded" with a privilege, certainly not, but he'd thought that naturally John would have wanted to test him. And then perhaps just let him stay, even if it was a small bed, but there wasn't anything but the floor for him to sleep on. All his previous private owners had tested him, save from the first ones, but he had of course been too young at the time.

He shivered under his coat. It was cold on the floor, and the empty fireplace next to him gave no warmth. His master slept comfortably in his bed, radiator right there between him and the wall. Sherlock almost hoped he could have crawled to sleep under his new master's bed, next to the radiator, even if it wasn't a bed made for that kind of thing. Sex even might have been worth it, if he'd been allowed to spend the rest of the night sharing the same bed for warmth.

He turned to look away, angry for his own thoughts betraying him so, but the feeling refused to leave him. He managed to dose off for a while, partly awake, yet dreaming of needles in his arms. Of ones that granted him bliss, and of ones that would bring him death. He stirred awake around four in the morning, when doctor Watson started moving restlessly in his sleep. Soon Sherlock could hear him whimper and it didn't take long from that for the man to thrash awake violently, left arm darting quickly as if to fend against some unseen enemy. He held it there for ten seconds or so, until he remembered where he was.

Sherlock didn't dare to move. He could hear the man draw shaky breaths and in the dim light coming from the window he could see him biting into his fist to not sob out loud. The doctor probably didn't remember he was in the room, but then again, even if he did, what would it matter to a free man like him? Sherlock was just a slave, it hardly mattered what he saw or heard. He idly wondered if he should go to his master, attempt to soothe him somehow, but the mere idea disgusted him. He wasn't like that, he wasn't that much of a slave. He wouldn't willingly go to his owner's bed in the middle of the night, when the man had just woken from a nightmare. Not unless he was ordered to.

So he stayed silent and still, listening to the man's harsh breathing and how he tossed himself on his stomach, burying his face into the pillow. Sherlock didn't feel sorry for him. As a slave he should have felt some sort of compassion for his master, even for a new one, but Sherlock had never been like that. Would never be. He had never given up his pride or his free will, not even in Florida, even if it had been close. His body might have belonged to someone else for the majority of his life, but he'd never surrender his thoughts or feelings. Those no one could take from him unless he gave them.

So instead of going to his master, Sherlock closed his eyes, willing himself to ignore the sounds around him. He had constructed his primary mind palace to his childhood home. In there everything is still like it was when he was a free human being. Sherlock stepped inside through the front door to the hall. He wasn't looking for anything, just checking everything was in its place. His mind palace had grown throughout the years into a vast library of information that could not be thoroughly walked through in one night, so he decided to head for parts he hadn't recently checked. In his mind he walked around the hall, up the stairs and through the hallway to his parents' bedroom. Everything was as it should be and he had nothing new to add to the rooms upstairs. He had even constructed a new section for his new master, where he could store away the details he needed to know to keep him satisfied. So far it didn't include much, though most of normal people would have disagreed. But then again, normal people never observed.

It was perhaps two hours of wandering in his mind later when he was brought back to the reality by his new master poking at his side with his cane, but it took a moment for his startled mind to put together what the reality around him was. He opened his eyes and stared up at the man in annoyance to mask his surprise. "What?"

Dr Watson raised his eyebrow at his tone. "Your master's up, you should be preparing my breakfast."

Sherlock groaned, but complied. His muscles ached from lying all night on the cold floor and he had got barely any sleep at all. He could go long periods with no sleep, but for that he needed something interesting to occupy his mind with.

"You can use the bathroom after me. Cereals work fine this time", he said smugly.

Sherlock didn't bother to pay any attention to it. He had had worse than a little smugness thrown at him. "Coffee or tea?" he wanted to know instead.

"Coffee. Always coffee in the morning. Milk, no sugar."

"Understood."

He heard the shower go off little before the kettle's noise drowned all the other sounds from Sherlock. He prepared cereals and toast, since there wasn't much else. "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" had to do, there wasn't anything else in the cupboards. Many slaves would have had hard time not eating some themselves without permission, but Sherlock had never liked eating. It seemed to slow down his thoughts, and after living a major part of his life on one meal a day, he wasn't particularly hungry yet. Despite it, his master invited him to sit with him, even allowed him a mug of his own and told him to make toast for himself as well. So Sherlock ate. It could very well be all he'd get to eat today and he didn't have anything to concentrate his mind yet that would take the attention away from inevitable annoyance known as hunger.

"You know", John started, "I can't remember the last time I've had cereals for breakfast. I just bought them at some point and then never even opened the package."

Sherlock nodded.

"You're allowed to speak", his master said. "I'd rather you did."

"As you wish, master", he replied half-heartedly.

They ate, but the silence between them stayed. The small TV was turned on to show the morning news and a talk show to provide some noise for the background, and his master occasionally made comments on it. Sherlock managed to mostly keep his thoughts to himself, only barking a sarcastic comment here and there a few times. It wouldn't do him well to have his brand new master annoyed with him just yet. But to his surprise, John Watson laughed good-naturatedly at his words, providing them with his own opinions. Soon they were having an actual conversation and Sherlock all but forgot his position until John checked his watch to realise he should leave in five minutes to make it to the appointment in time. Ella would not take it well if he'd be late.

"Wash the dishes, make the bed and do some general cleaning around here while I'm gone. The first two I expect you to do every day. You can sleep on the bed if you want. I'll be back around the same time as yesterday."

The orders snapped Sherlock back to reality. If John noticed the excited sparkle in his eyes disappear, he never commented on it. He probably didn't. Just one more idiot to serve, after all. "Yes, master."

* * *

"How's the blog going?"

Eyes fluttered closed for a second, chin tipped down. A shrug. "Fine. It's going fine."

"You haven't written a word since last week."

His eyes met hers. "No, not really", he admitted.

Ella sighed. "John, I'm not asking you to write just to spite you. This _will_ actually help you."

John licked his lips unconsciously. "I know. It's just...nothing really happens", he told helplessly.

He saw Ella open her mouth to argue, but before she had a chance to speak, he gestured her to wait and continued: "I'll write, I promise. Now I actually might even have something to write about."

She re-crossed her legs and her eyebrow rose questioningly, but she remembered what he was talking about before asking out loud. "You went to get the slave?"

"Yes."

"And how is it?"

"Well, I only got him yesterday", he shrugged. "His papers say he's a troublemaker, but so far he's been well-behaved."

Ella's eyes narrowed disapprovingly at "troublemaker", but she only wrote something down instead of saying anything on the subject, before boring her gaze at him again. "How do you feel about it? Becoming a slave owner."

John glanced out of the window. It was still windy and the hanging clouds indicated it might start raining later. Although it been so cold it might even snow. Who knew? Another shrug. "Fine I guess."

He knew Ella was waiting for him to continue. "It's...nice, I suppose. Having someone around."

She nodded, clearly expecting him to continue speaking.

"He's... I don't know. Different? His papers say he's been a slave since he was ten, but he's not like other slaves. It's...refreshing. Interesting."

She straightened herself in her chair. Tapped her notes with the pen. "Different how? You said he's a troublemaker."

John thought about the question for a while before answering. For some reason he didn't want her to cling too much onto the troublemaker part. Already protective over his property.

"He seems independent the way slaves usually aren't. It's more like he'd become a slave recently, actually. He's obedient, but not submissive. We ate breakfast together this morning, and it was more like talking with a friend than a slave."

Ella scribbled down something again and he tried to peer what it said, but she noticed and tilted the clipboard so that he couldn't see. He'd managed to make out the word "friend".

The conversation shifted to other subjects. How his week had been. How the job hunting was going on. Who he had met, what he had done with them. Had he been able to sleep. How he felt, always how he felt about things. By the time their session was over John felt mentally exhausted. He just felt tired. Tired of the therapy, tired of being here, tired of being tired and useless. He almost didn't feel like going to the interview he had arranged himself for a crime scene clean up. The job description had said they hired ex-soldiers and medics among with ex-firemen and other people who in general were used to stressful environment and gore.

And of course Ella had made him promise he'd go to the interview, though he hadn't told her what kind of a job it was. He wasn't sure if she'd approve. He'd focused on talking about another one he had later today.

But it was still several hours before it. He didn't want to go back to the flat, so he walked an hour aimlessly before deciding he could as well go see if he'd find whatever it was a new slave owner might need. He hadn't been an owner for more than a day, but he was already seeing the city differently. Most buses had an internationally known black stick-man on white background with a red collar around the neck, and an X over it, indicating no slaves were allowed to step on. Some taxis had it, too. A few shops, restaurants and buildings also had the slave banning sticker on their doors, banks and cash machines most notably. He saw many stickers with an added stick-man. _Slaves must be attended_ , it said. He'd never paid any attention to these before.

He went to see mattresses, but cringed at their price. Maybe some other day. He probably couldn't even get one home by himself and couldn't afford to have it brought in a van. He hadn't been in London for long and already his finances were running low. At this rate he'd have to move out of London within a few months. He really needed a job if he wished to stay, the army pension wasn't even nearly enough to sustain living here.

He didn't buy a mattress, but he did buy a small pillow and a blanket. They would have to do for now. He'd think about the mattress later.

His first job interview, the one he'd arranged himself and not told about to Ella, didn't go well.

"Well, you're more than qualified", the interviewer had said, but John had immediately noticed something off with his tone. Sure enough, he had continued: "Officially I should keep you waiting at least until tomorrow, but I think it's fair to tell you right now that it's a no."

"No? What, why? You just said I'm qualified."

John had felt a sting of disappointment. It hadn't initially been the kind of job he would have wanted, but it would have paid well and as inappropriate it was, there was something about the idea of crime and homicide scenes that fascinated him, even if it was just to clean them up after the bodies had been examined and moved. The ad he'd seen online had specifically said they hired ex-soldiers, people who already knew they could handle it. He knew he could handle it.

"PTSD", the interviewer had said the cursed four letters. "We can't have someone suffering from PTSD scrubbing brain matter from the walls."

"I'm a soldier _and_ a doctor", John had snapped a little harsher than had probably been wise in his situation. "Brain matter on the walls is not a problem." It really, really wasn't. He didn't like it, who in their right mind would, but he knew he could handle it without freaking out or mulling over it later.

"No, sorry. Nothing I can do. I can't hire a guy with PTSD."

"I'm _not_ traumatised by bodies. Believe me, I've seen it all in Afghanistan."

The interviewer had raised his eyebrows in a manner that seemed to all but scream "you have PTSD, of course you are traumatised".

"I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just saying I can't hire you. Sorry."

Seeing there was nothing else he could say, John had made a hasty retreat. He didn't go to his second interview. The one that would have been his "proper" job interview that could have got him back working on the medical field. He wouldn't have wanted the crappy job the unemployment office had directed him to, anyway.

Holmes was nowhere to be seen when John opened the door. He tried calling, but the slave did not show up. After stepping further into his flat, it became clear that Holmes wasn't in the flat at all. Cursing under his breath he wobbled around the single room, unrealistically hoping the slave would magically turn up. He didn't.

His slave was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed by the comments and interest I got from only one chapter. Thank you! I hope you enjoyed this one as well. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added some tags, though I think they'll be more relevant in the future.

John sat heavily onto the bed, dragging his hand through his hair in despair. _Fuck._

Maybe Holmes had just gone to the Lidl around the corner. There wasn't much in the fridge and John _had_ told him to have meal ready by the time he'd get home. By skipping the interview he was more than two hours early.

No, no. Holmes didn't have any money and his ID chip hadn't been synced with his card. It would probably be for the best to never sync it. He hadn't even had any time to renew Holmes's right to legally carry money. _Shit._

Second day as a slave owner and he'd already lost the said slave. Or let it escape. What the _hell_ was he supposed to do now?

This wouldn't have happened if he'd just opened his damn mouth and said he didn't want Holmes. That he couldn't manage a slave with history like that and that he would've preferred a female. Even a male would have done, if it had been a normal one.

_Alright, think John, think._

What did people do when their slave disappeared? Should he call the police? Or InS? Should he wait and see if he came back?

John glanced at the floor by the fireplace. All Holmes's possessions seemed to still be there except for the coat. But maybe the violin wasn't important in the least. Maybe he didn't even enjoy playing it.

 _The ID chip._ The idea hit John and he scrambled to the desk to get the slave's file. There it was, written on the contract. A website address, a user name and a password. All he had to do was to log in and he could check the slaves GPS record.

It took an annoying eighteen minutes for the laptop to turn on, the browser to start, the web page to load and for him to come up with a new password for his jhwatson account the InS site insisted him to do before letting him get any further. Then there was wall of text in the form of Terms and Conditions he scrolled by quickly without reading.

All the information concerning the slave 99OR-79/3J3A in an online form. John clicked the tracker. It immediately asked him whether he wanted to use the free version, start a paid service with a monthly rate or a paid service with a minute rate for temporary use. He clicked free.

The map of Britain loaded with a blue dot on London. John tried to zoom in, but the free service only let him know that Holmes was somewhere in the area. It wouldn't zoom close enough for him to be able to pinpoint an exact street. He checked back the three days the service allowed, but the only time the dot significantly moved was when Holmes had been given to John and they'd left the InS holding centre. But it _did_ move, even if only a little. Holmes had been out on his own yesterday as well.

He was probably coming back then. Hopefully. Still, Holmes had left the flat without his master's consent, apparently without any acceptable reason.

"Thought I wouldn't notice?" John muttered. Was he testing John? Was it some sort of a power struggle? He hadn't forgotten the staring contest in the cab. Holmes was definitely no ordinary slave, but two could play the game and he'd be damned if he was going to lose to a slave. Holmes would need to learn his place and John _would_ make that happen.

He didn't need to wait even an hour before the doorbell rang.

John hauled the door open with far too much force than necessary. "Where have you been?"

Holmes looked at him with a face suggesting they both knew the answer, but out loud he said: "Walking."

It was truthful enough. As long as he stayed away from cash machines that would react to his chip if he went too close and kept his stigma hidden, he passed easily as a citizen. Even so, he hadn't been able to beg or ask enough money for a phone call, let alone for a cab. The tube and the buses were entirely out of question for a chipped slave like him travelling alone without proper papers. Ones he didn't have anymore, now that his owner had changed. Not that he had been able to come to central London apart from a few special occasions while under master and mistress Summers's ownership.

"Who said you could go out and have a walk?" John questioned as the slave stepped in and closed the door.

"You told me to 'do whatever you do'", Holmes quoted. He took off the coat as if nothing in particular had happened and hung it next to John's.

"Yeah, well, I meant inside. _In_ the flat. You _need_ my permission to go out! And don't give me that look", he said when the corner of Holmes's mouth twisted ever so slightly into a smirk. "I checked the GPS record. It wasn't just today, you went out yesterday, too."

"I did", Holmes calmly agreed. He shouldn't have been calm. He'd just been caught, he should have been quivering on the floor and apologising.

"I could take this as a failed escape", John threatened. "God knows you've tried that before. I've read your file."

Holmes wasn't intimidated in the slightest. "I came back, didn't I? I was not aware I wasn't allowed to leave the flat."

John ignored him. "I could have you flogged. No, actually I _should_ have you flogged."

Holmes lifted an eyebrow. It was a silent challenge, John knew it, but goddammit he didn't want to flog anyone. He didn't even own a whip or a cane or anything yet! Clearly he needed to add that to his shopping list. He grit his teeth in annoyance and ran his fingers through his hair. He should have anticipated something like this, he really should have. He'd read the damn file about Holmes! Strict rules, control and physical disciplining.

"How... How did you even get back in? You don't have the key. And _please_ don't say you just left the door unlocked somehow, because then I'm really going to have to flog you."

"Of course I didn't." There was a hint of mockery in his voice. "You would have noticed when you came in. I used the window", he explained, nodding towards it. It was indeed unlocked. John hadn't even noticed.

"I was going to come back the same way, but seeing you had returned, the lights being on being a bit of a giveaway", Holmes shrugged, "I decided to just come through the door because there was no point in trying to get back without you noticing anymore."

John paced in the small room, clenching his fists and fighting the urge to lash out at the slave who still stood in the doorway. Stood! Any normal slave would have been kneeling on the floor the second they became aware their master wasn't pleased with them.

"Explain yourself", he managed to order with relative calm, "and make it good. I might not own a whip, but I have belts."

The defiant look in the slaves eyes only seemed to increase, and his lips curled with confined anger, but the man lowered himself to stand on his knees, bowing his face slightly downwards, still looking at him under his eyebrows.

"I just went for a walk, _master_. You weren't supposed to be back yet. It wouldn't have affected any orders you gave me."

The _nerve_ this slave had! "You weren't supposed to go out at all!"

"I _wasn't_ trying to escape!" Holmes equally raised his voice at him.

"Then what do you call it?"

"I just needed to get out! I spent two weeks in a tiny cell at InS, I _needed_ fresh air!"

"What makes you think you can do that?" John yelled the slave. "I don't care what you feel you need. I'm the one who decides what you need. And I don't remember giving you a permission to go out on your own!"

"I've had masters who have let me go out when I have no duties to perform", the man argued. "I couldn't have known _you_ weren't one of them."

John growled in frustration, raising his hands in defeat. "Fine. _Fine_ , I'm not flogging you for this. But if I catch you doing this again I _will_ discipline you. Is that understood?"

Holmes just glared at him.

"Is. That. Understood?" John spelled out each word, grabbing the slave's curly, black hair to force him to face his owner looming over him. The slave grimaced and hissed in pain as John pulled his head by the hair, far enough to make him sit on his knees like he should've done in the first place.

"Yes, master", Holmes replied, his tone rivalling his in its hostility.

John stepped back, letting go of the man's hair. He did not take his eyes off the slave. "I'm waiting."

Holmes's fingers clutched his knees and he grit his teeth. For several seconds they just stared at each other, until Holmes finally seemed to think the better of it, and assumed the floor position.

"I've displeased you, master. I'm sorry, please forgive me", he spoke to the carpet.

None of the words the slave forced out of his mouth sounded sincere, but at least he had said them.

"Forgiven, but not forgotten. You can get up and start preparing my dinner."

Holmes stood up and bowed. "Thank you, _master_."

"I don't like your tone", John snapped. "You already had your meal this morning, so after you're done you can start cleaning the bathroom. I thought I told you to tidy up this place."

"Forgive me, master", he said without any arguments, although technically he would have had every right to argue. A toast and a cup of coffee were nowhere near enough for one day's meal, but the slaves who would argue their already angered master were scarce. Evidently Holmes wasn't one to risk making the situation worse for himself by direct confrontation. "I'll make myself more useful."

"And make it spotless." John waved him off angrily. The plastic bag with Holmes's pillow and blanket was still on the floor. He kicked it under the bed, out of view. Holmes could sleep another night with his coat and the bag.

Holmes served the dinner in silence and did not attempt to make any conversation while he waited on the floor for his master to eat. He washed the dishes in equal silence, careful to even not make much noise with the kitchenware as John started writing the promised update for his blog. He found Holmes scrubbing the bathtub an hour later after he was done. It was a short update, and he had deleted and rewritten it before being satisfied with it. Hopefully Ella would appreciate the effort.

"Out."

The slave complied with a slight bow of his head and slipped past him. Not an inch of him touched John despite the cramped space. When John was done, Holmes stood waiting right behind the door, but was quick to step aside to let him pass. Slightly creepy that.

"You can sleep after you're finished. Be silent, I don't want you bothering me or the neighbours."

"Yes, master. Goodnight, master."

John went straight to bed without hearing the smallest sound from the slave. When he woke up in the morning he'd completely forgotten the existence of Holmes until he, still half asleep, opened the door to the loo.

"H-Holmes!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

Holmes instantly scrambled up on his feet from the floor where he'd been on all fours. "Good morning, master", he greeted cautiously. He lifted his hand and gave a little wave with a toothbrush. "I'm cleaning the bathroom as master ordered me to."

John gaped at him. "Have you been up doing it all night?"

"Master explicitly told me it had to be spotless and done quietly", Holmes said, sounding a little wary. The extremely polite pattern of addressing one's master didn't fit well with the defiant look in his eyes.

"I didn't mean it literally!" John felt an odd need to defend himself even though Holmes wasn't really accusing him. And even if he was, he had no right to.

"Then master should have said so. I couldn't have known that." Holmes's tone was neutral, but John could see him tense a little. Other slave might have flinched at John's tone, but not Holmes. He just stated the fact despite he'd clearly been thinking John might have actually hurt him if the bathroom wasn't sparkling. And of course, a normal slave would have started apologising the moment their master rose their voice.

"Right." John sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry, you're right. I can see what kind of owners you've had previously."

"You're..." Holmes's brows furrowed in confusion and he dropped the polite speech pattern, "apologising me?"

"Well, I didn't realise you'd take it literally", he exclaimed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew a deep breath.

"Look, I know I was angry last night and lost my temper, but I'm not going hurt you for cleaning the loo", John reassured, gesturing with his arm. The room was cleaner than the day he moved in. "God, you've really been doing this all night... What even took you so long?"

"There's a lot of mold between the tiles."

True, John had noticed that, too, when he had moved in. He couldn't help but to admire the amount of work his slave had done.

"I think we can agree you've done enough for one night", he said. "Did you– is that _my toothbrush_?!"

"You would have needed a new one anyway. Clearly you've had it for months. It's appalling." Holmes looked at him calculatingly for a second before adding: "I'm just doing you a favour."

" _You_ –" John shook his head. He couldn't really get mad, not with how absurd the situation was. Holmes was smirking at him and joined him in laughter a moment later.

"Did you–" John attempted to compose himself. "Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

"You're mad."

"Just following your orders."

Awkward silence fell into the room. At least it felt awkward for John up until Holmes's stomach growled loudly. The slave bit his lip and looked away. He was tired and hungry. He hadn't dared to sleep should he not wake up before his owner, and the only thing he'd had to fill his stomach was water. Even that he hadn't drank much so that he wouldn't need to use the toilet later. While he didn't think master Watson to be anything like his seventh owner had been, he still didn't know him well enough to say for sure how he would act when angered enough. And tonight had not been the night he wanted to find out if something like flushing a toilet in the middle of the night was something to make him snap. He'd been extremely careful with the tap and shower, too, using only minimal amount of water to not make any noise.

John felt guilty. He hadn't fed his slave for twenty-four hours, and Holmes looked exhausted.

"Right...um. After I'm done, you can get yourself ready. You must be hungry. I can take care of the breakfast today. You can sleep on the bed again and take care of the dishes later."

"Very kind of you, master."

John shook his head in bemusement. "Take a shower, too. And get rid of that toothbrush."

Holmes emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later after John, freshly showered and face shaven, wearing only a towel. John kept his eyes elsewhere while his slave dressed into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

"We need to establish some rules", he said as soon as Holmes had sat down with his share of the breakfast.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, though secretly he was relieved. Having rules laid out clearly would make his life significantly easier. Knowing the rules was the first step into knowing how to bend them or go around them. "Alright."

"First of all, everything I've already said still stands. You get up in the morning with me, preferably earlier, if you can. You make the breakfast while I'm using the bathroom. You can eat with me –actually you can always expect to eat with me unless I tell you otherwise. I'm not going to starve you, so I'm fine with you eating more than once a day, six times a week. It's your job to take care of the dishes and keep the kitchen clean. Keeping everything clean and neat is your job, and I expect you to keep the flat in order without me needing to specifically tell you every time. I don't really care what you do while I'm out. You can sleep or watch the telly, but I don't want you to go out without letting me know, alright?"

The slave nodded. "Yes, master."

"And I don't mean a post-it note." John felt like making it absolutely clear. "If you want to go out, you are going to need to ask for a permission. I want to know where you're going and what you're doing. And I want you back punctually. And if I deny you, then you are not leaving the flat. If I catch you leaving the flat without my permission again, I _will_ discipline you."

The slave scoffed as if he'd offended him. "Of course."

John let it go unnoticed. "Laundry's going to be your job as well. I'll show you the laundrette later. Shopping, too, to some extent, I think, after I've updated your papers and get you a permission to carry money."

The laws were strict that way. Slaves weren't allowed to possess money, drive a car, work with a salary or travel on their own without proper paperwork in order.

"There's a Lidl just around the corner and a Tesco Express down the street. What else..? You can use the bathroom whenever you want as long as I'm not using it. Same goes for the TV. Like I said, you can watch it, but if I tell you to change the channel or turn it off, you do that."

Holmes seemed to pay more attention on picking his toast than his master's words, but said obediently: "As you wish."

John licked his lips. Was there anything else? He was certain Holmes would try to bend the rules if he wasn't thorough enough. "Right...I guess that's all for now. Or do you have any questions?"

Holmes abandoned the toast and suddenly all his attention was on John. It would have been unnerving to be the target of such intense eyes if he'd been a free man, but getting such a look from a slave was disturbing. The slave leant slightly over the table. "Just one. How do you feel about the violin?"

"Uh, I've no strong feelings for or against", John answered, taken aback by the unexpected question. "Why?"

Holmes looked him under his eyebrows before leaning back into his seat and took a bite of the toast. "You've read my file."

John's gaze found the file still on the desk. "The viol– Yes, right. You have a violin. Can you play it?"

This time Holmes definitely looked offended. "Obviously."

"Are you any good?" the master inquired.

"Very good", Holmes replied firmly. "You might be able to rent me for an orchestra."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really."

"Have you ever been rented for an orchestra before?" he asked curiously and sipped his coffee. It wasn't exactly the way he liked it, but he'd bring that up some other time.

"On few occasions."

"But not full time?"

"No. Just filling-in for a few nights."

"What else can you do?"

"This and that", he brushed off the question. "So you wouldn't mind if I played occasionally?"

"Not in the least. I might even ask you to. What do you mean by 'this and that'?" John wanted to know.

"I know chemistry and anatomy", Holmes stated, then half a second later decided to explain: "I used to work at a morgue."

"Your file didn't say anything about that."

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "It wouldn't. What my previous owners used me for is their private business and not recorded by InS or anyone else."

"Then why are you telling me?"

Holmes swallowed the last of his coffee. "Why shouldn't I? Although whether or not I enjoy doing things isn't important, I actually do enjoy playing the violin and doing chemical experiments. If there is a chance that something I enjoy doing could profit you financially, why should I keep you in the dark? Your financial situation is painfully obvious. You can barely afford this flat with your pension and it looks like your job hunting isn't going very well."

"I've just started", John said defensively.

"It's the PTSD."

John's expressions darkened. "Enough of me, this is about you."

Holmes shrugged and got up to clear the table. "Whatever you say. _Master_."

"Yeah, about that..."

Holmes sighed, ready to open his mouth and apologise, but John cut him off: "I'd actually prefer if you called me John. In private, I mean", he added quickly. Having his slave address him by his first name in public would be too pathetic even for a desperately lonely, useless soldier like him.

The slave looked cautious at his demand. "Just...John? Not 'master John' or..?"

"No, just John. I've never been called 'master' before, it's weird", he admitted, but hurried to continue: "Obviously you'll call me 'master' in public."

The truth was, he almost wished Holmes weren't his slave. The few conversations they had had momentarily made him forget about how useless he felt. Having a slave to take care of all the tasks made him feel even more so, but talking with Holmes had been almost like talking with a friend. It was pathetic, he knew it was. Only old and lonely people kept slaves purely for company, but John could have done just that with Holmes.

"Is that alright?"

Holmes considered his words with a nonplussed expression before nodding slowly. "Very well. John."

* * *

John did not stay home for most of Saturday. He left, telling his slave he had things to do, even though he didn't. He simply didn't feel like staying in his bare, small flat. He would go crazy, end up staring at his gun again. So instead he wandered the streets, painfully slowly compared to what he had been used to before his injury. He sat a while in a café reading a newspaper. The two identical suicides from the past week still dominated the media.

Holmes had dinner at ready when he finally did find the energy, if not will, to return. The slave still did not set a place for himself before John explicitly told him to do so. At least he looked better rested than in the morning.

"So", he started, "I don't really know anything about you."

Holmes made a dismissive gesture. "All you need to know should be in my file."

"It isn't, though. I don't mean the clinical stuff. I don't care about your...muscle structure or– or the fact that you apparently speak fluent French."

The slaved smiled humourlessly. " _Oui._ "

John looked at his plate and impaled a carrot with his fork before looking back at Holmes. "I assume you know what the file says."

"I've read it, yes", the slave confirmed.

"Good. So then you'll understand if I'm slightly...curious."

Holmes merely raised an eyebrow and chewed his food.

"It says you've been a slave since you were ten."

"Correct."

"Can I–" John swallowed back the sentence. He did _not_ need to ask for a permission for _anything_ when it came to Holmes. He started over: "What happened? Were your parents in financial trouble or..?"

While unfortunate, it wasn't terribly uncommon for parents to sometimes sell their child or children to slavery. Especially if the father of the child had been a slave. If the mother was a slave, the child more or less automatically became a slave unless the freeman father wanted to make the child a legal person for some reason. Even free children were, in the eyes of the law, their parents' property until the age of twelve.

"No. They died", Holmes replied. If the subject made him feel anything in particular, his voice or manners were not revealing it.

"Oh. And you...didn't have any other family?"

"No."

"Alright... It says I'm your tenth owner."

"Which you are", Holmes confirmed. "Technically."

"Why?"

"People tend not to like me."

John folded his arms. "Why?"

"I'm not exactly a perfect slave, am I?"

"It says you've tried to escape four times."

Holmes's eyes bore into him, as if he was determined not to look away. " _Three times_. And that was a long time ago."

"Three before you went missing, once after that. Why were you even missing for three years?"

His slave's lips curled in annoyance. "I _didn't_ escape."

"Four times", John repeated. "And apparently that's only counting the times it went to the records. Considering what I know about you so far, I really wouldn't be surprised if there were more. I ought to get you a collar."

Wearing a collar would at least have people immediately recognise him as a slave.

"If I'd successfully escaped, why would I've let myself be captured after three years? The third time _wasn't_ an escape attempt. You don't need to buy me a collar, I'm not going to escape", Holmes said irritably. "I shouldn't have left the flat, yes, but I came back. Isn't that enough of a proof?"

"Fine. But I'm still thinking about the collar. Why did you say 'technically'?"

The slave shrugged. "Like you said, I went missing for three years. I had several illegal owners. I didn't escape, I was illegally used. Yes, it was recorded as an escape, but I was never penalised for it. And legal or not, they _are_ my previous owners so it's none of your business, _master._ "

"John. Call me John", he reminded.

"Fine. John."

John breathed out and silently counted to ten. Holmes was difficult, he'd known that.

"I'm not picking up a fight here, Holmes", he eventually said. "I'm just trying to...to get to know you. Like it or not, you're living with me and I'm not throwing you away."

"Why would you need to _know me_?" the slave all but spat out. "You _own_ me. You can have me be whatever you want."

"Not everyone is a bad owner, Holmes. There are people who want the best for their slave."

"Like you, _master_?"

"Yes, like _me_. I want the best for you. As a slave. You are my responsibility. So just be good and do your part, and you don't have to worry about anything. Worrying and making decisions are _my_ jobs. We all have our place in the society and the human are not born equal for a reason."

"I was _not_ born into this", Holmes growled at him, his expression twisted with anger.

"Nevertheless", John said firmly, determined not to let Holmes's feelings affect him. He was a slave. His feelings, while John did care for them, did not matter on this subject. "It's not like you were just thrown into it, right? They must have asked around for remaining family members."

Holmes's eyes averted.

"I didn't have any", he said quickly.

"Well what else were they supposed to do then? What else should they do to unwanted children?"

"What if it had been you, _master_?" the slave countered angrily. "Would you still think the same?"

"But it wasn't."

"But what if it was?"

"Well then I'd be a slave and deal with it!"

Holmes flinched at his tone, but John only closed his eyes for a moment before continuing in a much calmer tone: "Listen...I wouldn't want to be a slave. Of course I wouldn't. But slaves...they're slaves. They have their place in the world. I mean... You have a purpose."

 _I am grateful, for you give my life a purpose._ The words, painfully familiar, rang in Sherlock's ears automatically. Repeated by him countless of times to different masters and not once had he believed them. He would never believe them. His purpose, his _worth_ would never be to serve and obey and love his owners. He was a human being, _just like them_. Had been. Now he was furniture. His legal rights to some extent were worse than those of pets. You couldn't hit a dog after all, but you could hit a slave.

"I'm just saying, the economy, for example. They'd move all factories out of this country if it weren't for slaves", his master continued, completely oblivious to moodiness taking over his slave. "The world wouldn't function without slaves."

"The Nordic countries work well enough."

John scoffed at his argument. "Really? And where do you think they buy their stuff? They may have abolished slavery, but their countries run on slaves nevertheless. Bunch of hypocrites."

"There's Luxembourg and New Zealand, too."

"Same with them."

"At least they don't enslave their own citizens", Sherlock said, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"Slaves _are not_ citizens." His master looked offended by the mere idea of it.

"I used to be a citizen."

"Well you aren't one anymore. End of discussion."

The slave accepted his order and did not say another word on the subject, although it clearly irritated him immensely. The mood stuck on Holmes for the rest of the night and later things escalated even worse.

"Holmes, could you–"

John cut himself off. He didn't need to ask, Holmes was his slave. He cleared his throat and started again. "Holmes, I want coffee."

No reply came from the slave and he didn't move an inch from the bed where he was apparently just resting, eyes closed but his hands brought over his chest into a prayer-like position. John pushed the chair a bit further away from the table to see the slave better.

"Holmes."

"Shut up, I'm updating", Holmes snapped, eyes still closed.

"What?" John blurted out. The slave didn't move. "Holmes, I said–"

"Oh, for–" Holmes sat up, throwing his arms in an obvious annoyance. " _What?_ "

John blinked, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finding words again. "Did you just tell me to shut up?"

Holmes growled frustratedly. "Did you actually have something you wanted to say or were you interrupting me just because you can?"

John gaped at him. No slave had _ever_ talked this disrespectfully to him.

"Well?" Holmes prompted, still completely oblivious to his master's anger.

"Holmes. Floor, _now_ ", John growled at the man,

Holmes looked at him like he only now had remembered who he was talking to and dropped down on his knees.

"I said _floor_."

Holmes groaned irritably. "Oh, please."

"Onto the floor!" he shouted, getting violently up from his seat. The dramatic effect was considerably lessened by his right leg buckling under him, but Holmes seemed to finally realise John was being serious and kowtowed hurriedly.

"Honestly..." John muttered under his breath, steadying himself with the back of the chair. Fucking leg, he hadn't meant to sound _that_ angry. "Why do you have to be so difficult? I just told you to make a cup of coffee, not run an errand to the other side of the city."

Although Holmes would have probably been more than happy to run an errand if it meant he'd get to roam around London freely.

"You've nothing to say?"

"Apologies", came a muffled response from the floor.

"For what?" he demanded.

"I..." Holmes paused, reluctant to say anything.

"Yes?"

"I defied you, master. I apologise. I'll prepare the coffee right away", Holmes promised, lifting his face from the carpet to test the grounds. John had not objections.

"Yes, do", he sighed. "On your knees."

Holmes obliged in silence, once again like a proper slave should. His face betrayed no emotion and he kept his eyes cast down, stoically waiting for his master's next action. Another man might have beaten him with a stick until he was a whimpering mess for what he had just done, but not John, even if a part of him wanted to do exactly that. Someone probably had done it in the past and it hadn't changed Holmes's behaviour for better.

"Tell me, Holmes", he started, walking to his slave. Holmes flinched barely noticeably, then visibly braced himself for whatever he assumed John would do.

"Did you talk this disrespectfully to your previous owners, too? Or is it just me? Am I getting some kind of special treatment?" John demanded, trying very hard to stay calm.

"Because I have _never_ in my life had a slave talk back to me like this."

"It's there in my file, isn't it? I'm ill-tempered and bad-mouthed. I'm not a good slave", Holmes snapped.

John slapped him as hard across the face as he dared, avoiding his nose. He didn't want the man to bleed on the fitted carpet after all.

"I'm your master and you _do not_ talk to me like that. Just answer the question."

Holmes pursed his lips stubbornly. "Yes. Yes, I've always disrespected my owners."

John nodded and straightened his back. "Alright. Good. You can get up and make that coffee now. Which you would've already done by now if you'd just obeyed in the first place. And now that I think of it, I'm actually a little hungry, too. Make that a coffee and a sandwich. There's duct tape in the drawer, I'm sure you can find it. Tape your mouth shut, serve me my coffee and then you can go back 'updating' or whatever it was you were doing. And if this happens again, I _will_ buy you a muzzle. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, master." Holmes rose and bowed. "Thank you, master."

His mouth remained taped shut for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the interest towards my fic and for all the comments so far! They make me tremendously happy! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well. :)
> 
> As for the countries that have abolished slavery in this alternate universe, I picked them up because all of them were in the top on several different freedom, democracy and equality indexes I spent way too much time on reading. Plus I need at least Norway to be there. For reasons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me longer to update than I anticipated. I've been busier with real life than usual and it took me forever until I was even somewhat happy with what I'd written.
> 
> Again, thank you so so much for the many encouraging comments and your general interest towards my fic. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well! Tell me what you think.
> 
> Also I decided to just throw some of the characters that will make an appearance in the near future to the tags.

John went out on Sunday night. He had reluctantly agreed on meeting some old rugby mates at a pub, but it turned out being more fun than he had expected. It was surprisingly nice to get to spend time with old acquaintances, even if it did remind him of things he was not proud of, and he absolutely detested the pitying looks his injury granted him. But no one mentioned it, so he was quickly able to forget all about it. Beer probably helped, too. It was a good night, all in all, and he returned home late. Holmes, who had been silent all day and speaking only when spoken to, had stayed up waiting for his master to return like a faithful slave was expected to.

His attitude remained the same on Monday when John woke up with a minor hangover. Soft spoken and polite. Slightly bowed head and little to no eye contact.

"You missed your appointment with your therapist, master", Holmes informed him as he served the breakfast. "She tried calling you several times."

"It's John", John reminded. "I didn't notice."

"You were still sleeping and your phone is on silent", Holmes told. His eyes were cast down and he stood by the table with his hands folded above his crotch, for once actually looking like a slave.

"Get yourself something to eat and sit down", John snapped. Maybe it was the headache, but Holmes's sudden obedience felt incredibly annoying. "Did you answer the phone?"

"No, master. John. I didn't think it was my place to do so without your consent." He bowed subtly before obeying his order to join him at the table.

John hummed in agreement and decided not to correct him. Even though John was still a little uncomfortable with the idea of being a master, he was one. And it would do no harm for Holmes to speak more like his kind.

"But you didn't feel like waking me up?" he questioned.

"I'm sorry, John, but in my experience it's rarely a good idea to wake up your drunken master."

John scoffed. "I wasn't that drunk."

"Forgive me, master, but yes you were." The slave drew a breath and exhaled before adding: "I mean no disrespect. Your therapy is going nowhere. You benefit more from sleeping."

"You're not the judge of that", John grunted.

"No I'm not", Holmes agreed calmly, still choosing to keep his eyes cast down like he was expected to. Only he hadn't done it to this extent so far, not when he was first shown to his new master, not when John had actually been angry with him. Maybe duct taping his mouth had been enough to show him who was in charge after all. John's instincts insisted it was too good to be true, but the more rational side of him reassured that this man was a slave, enslaved as a child. Whatever the rebelliousness almost free man like behaviour had been, this, _this_ was the natural way for Holmes to behave.

Pretend or not, Holmes remained obedient and silent, so John decided to use his time by starting to arrange his slave a commuting pass, and a right to carry and earn money. Though naturally any money he might earn would belong to John.

The blanket and pillow he had purchased for Holmes on Friday were still in a bag under his bed, but because the slave had been behaving so well all day, it felt like a good moment to finally actually give them to Holmes that night. No law required John to give his slave either of them, although most people did present their slaves with more than the necessary space to sleep. Said space didn't need to be private. When it came to the slave's sleep and well-being, the law dictated several things: the space had to be large enough for the slave to sleep in fetal position. It had to be warm enough and undisturbed enough during the period of sleep for the slave to be able to rest, although all the details were vague as John had come to notice was the case with all the laws concerning any rights the slaves had. They could be bent easily.

Most house slaves, especially personal slaves and bed slaves slept in the same room with their master or mistress. Under the bed was a popular spot if the room didn't have slave cupboard, but John's bed didn't have a slave space, and was thus too low for Holmes to sleep under it. Quite frankly, he didn't want a slave sleeping under his bed. Just having him in the same room felt odd enough. Holmes seemed happy enough with the floor, or at least he hadn't complained. John was fairly certain Holmes was the kind of slave who would make it known if he thought his meagre rights were neglected.

Holmes bowed deeply, thanked him profoundly and kissed his left hand as a sign of formal gratitude. The left because it was his dominant hand that granted these luxury items.

Perhaps rewarding him for good behaviour was actually working. At least the manageable behaviour continued. John still left him unattended for several hours each day, unable to spend all day within four walls with him. There were no new escape attempts, he had checked. In fact, his slave behaved so well that when on Thursday night John walked out of the bathroom, he couldn't help but to gape at his slave for a moment before picking up his jaw.

"Are you on my computer?" he blurted out in disbelief.

Holmes didn't turn to look at him and his eyes never left the screen. "Brilliant deduction, John."

"Who told you you could use my computer?"

"You didn't say I couldn't", the slave countered, still not looking at him.

"But it's password protected!"

His exclamation finally had some effect on the man. Holmes sighed irritably and steepled his hands under his chin. He hummed.

"Yes, took me less than five minutes to guess yours." His eyebrows shot up mockingly. "Not exactly the Fort Knox."

"Oh for– Give it to me." John pushed the lid down and snatched the laptop away from Holmes's reach. When the slave said nothing, he prompted: "Well?"

"I'm not sorry, but I apologise."

"I should've known it was too good to be true. What's the point if you can't even be arsed to pretend?"

Holmes merely shrugged, bringing the tips of his fingers closer to his chin.

"I should discipline you", John said in hopes to intimidate him. It sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Then do", Holmes replied nonchalantly.

"Alright, I will", John promised, though he had no idea what he would do. He hadn't yet physically disciplined Holmes, not properly, and he hadn't bought any kind of tools for such purpose, although perhaps he ought to buy a rattan cane. Maybe even a shocker. He didn't approve collar shockers, those things were inhumane, but a wristband or an anklet would probably come in hand if Holmes truly was anything like his official papers described him to be. Stupid, stupid to be lulled into believing Holmes's good behaviour would last. He should have realised the slave was toying with him. He wanted to know what his slave had been hoping to achieve by logging onto his laptop, but almost dreaded to ask.

"What were you even doing with it?"

"Nothing. Maybe I just enjoy watching silly cat videos, too."

"No you don't, you called them stupid."

"And you made me watch that video of a cat falling off a shelf twelve times."

"Because it was funny!"

Holmes grimaced. "No, it wasn't."

"Exactly. So what _were_ you doing? Or should I just check the browsing history?"

" _Nothing_ of importance", Holmes assured annoyedly. "I just checked my e-mail."

John blinked dubiously. "E-mail?"

"There's no law that'd prohibit a slave from having a free e-mail account", Holmes said defensively.

John had no idea whether it was true or not. He was pretty sure the terms and conditions usually said you had to be a natural person, which Holmes certainly wasn't. Not that he really cared if Holmes wanted to have an e-mail account. Little harm could be done with it, surely.

"What would you need an e-mail account for?"

"Just to keep in touch with peop–", Holmes snapped, then quickly cut himself off. He finished with a correction: "other slaves."

He was visibly irritated, but so was John. Probably not as much as the slave hopefully imagined, but a little nevertheless. Hacking into his master's laptop wasn't exactly the kind of thing a slave should expect to get away with. Holmes wasn't unaware of his dissatisfaction, so after a moment of silence he sighed and dropped on his knees from the chair. "I said _apologies_. Forgive me, master."

John wasn't sure what to say. He still needed to discipline Holmes, he'd said he would. When it became clear that he wasn't going to say anything, Holmes held out his hand and tugged at his trousers, looking up at him pleadingly.

"I'm sorry, but _please_ , master. Allow me this privilege and a small amount of privacy. Please."

"Fine", John sighed and held the laptop at him. Holmes took it, signed in effortlessly and continued whatever it was he'd been doing without getting up from the floor. Or thanking him. John shrugged it off and made himself a cup of tea while Holmes typed at furious speed. Perhaps he should make Holmes type for him from now on. He was clearly much faster at it than his master was.

Behind his back the slave smirked. Sherlock rubbed his fingers and returned his attention to the laptop.

 _Simple. Gullible. Easily manipulated._ John Watson wasn't any different from his previous masters. Feign submission, act eager to please, beg a little. Really, it was easy. To John's credit, he _had_ caught Sherlock sneaking out on the second day, but that had merely been a stroke of bad luck. Now that he had been nothing but a perfect slave ever since, almost at least, he was certain John would soon let his guard down and eventually allow him more privileges. It wouldn't take long for John to decide to allow him move more freely, he was certain of it.

He typed the end of his email quickly, sent it, logged off and made sure to erase all his traces from the browser's history. John didn't need to know about his website or how he'd been doing research on Austrian chocolates and poisons. That would only lead to unwanted questions. Better his "hobby" would still stay a secret.

"Just so that you know, master", he started, "During the times I've used your computer, I've also removed a trojan and several viruses. I also updated the antivirus. For safer surfing on those porn sites."

John nearly choked on his tea.

"Oh, don't be so prude. There's nothing wrong with it. You are not my first owner to enjoy pornography", he dismissed. Better they watched porn than made him perform. "And likely not the last."

"You don't think I'll keep you?" John asked, clearly wanting to avoid any further discussion of his browsing history.

"You'd be the first", he told bluntly.

John looked him silently for several seconds, then shook his head. "Are you done?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put it away and come here. On your knees."

"Why?" Sherlock questioned, although he knew.

"I said I would discipline you."

"Ah."

Sherlock closed the laptop into the drawer with the gun. John appeared to like to pretend it wasn't there, so he had not touched nor commented on it. He stepped away from the desk and lowered himself back on his knees. Nothing would be gained by refusal, after all, and he knew which fights to pick. Even if he didn't always act accordingly. But now was not the time. Anything he had to say would likely lead to more severe consequences, and he had seen the stupid slave magazine with its creative ideas for punishments on the table earlier. He would have known it had been read even if he hadn't seen John do so. Preferably his owner didn't remember or care. He would rather have the belt than chilli powder in his arse.

John left his tea mug on the table and undid his belt. "No need to take your shirt off, just pull it up and lower your head", he instructed.

Sherlock did as he was told to. He grit his teeth when the belt smacked his back one, two, three times, each of them hard, precise and painful. A military man indeed. And it clearly wasn't John's first time doing this either. Sherlock exhaled slowly, still holding his shirt up and keeping his head down while his master redid his belt.

"You can get up now."

Sherlock pulled down the shirt to cover the red marks on his back where the sharp pain was already turning into a dull ache. It was his pride rather than his back that suffered the worst. John didn't seem to expect him to thank him for the punishment, so Sherlock saw no reason to open his mouth or even bow.

"For the record", John started, settling on the edge of the bed with his tea, "you could've just asked for permission for using the computer."

"You would've let me?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised. So far he had scheduled all his computer time for when John was out or taking a shower, because he would have never assumed John to allow him to use it. People in general were not encouraged to let slaves use computers on their own. Who knew, the slaves might even learn about slave right movements that way. Or try to book a trip to Norway.

"I just did", John reminded. "Even after you had done it on your own. You may be my first personal slave, but you aren't the first slave I've dealt with. I'm a fair owner, I promise you. Act well and I have nothing against rewarding you. Switch on the TV.""

Sherlock obeyed silently. There were things he would have wanted to voice, things he didn't agree with his master, but he wisely chose to keep his mouth shut. Better not to cause any more conflicts between them tonight, even if he had miscalculated and let the mask of dutiful slave slip again. He would lose any argument just as he had lost nearly all the arguments so far, just for the fact that he had no right to have an opinion.

He sat next to John without an invitation, but his master didn't seem to mind. They watched the news in silence and Sherlock didn't pay much attention to it until unexpectedly, a familiar face filled the screen. Sherlock hadn't seen Lestrade for nearly four years save on the newspapers, but the man hadn't changed much. Even Donovan was there. It was replay of a press conference about the serial suicides, he'd already read about those and had known Lestrade was on the case.

"Wrong..." he muttered as Lestrade told the cameras how the "suicides were clearly linked".

"What?"

"Wrong", Sherlock repeated more forcefully, even though he hadn't meant to say anything out loud. "He's wrong. The victims are not linked and they are _not_ suicides."

"How would you know?"

"Even an idiot should see that", he spat out when the Detective Inspector reassured that people would be as safe as they wanted to be. The clip ended and the news anchor moved on to the next topic.

"Enlighten me then", John requested mockingly. "Why do you think they weren't suicides? All the news say they killed themselves in the same way."

"The victims didn't know each other, they were all found in random, empty places they had no reason to go to. None of them had a reason to commit suicide and all of them were taken from crowded places and/or only moments after having talked with someone they knew."

"How does that prove anything? We don't know anything about their lives, only what's been said on the papers. Most suicides come as a shock."

"None of them left notes."

"Not everyone leaves one", John countered.

Sherlock growled frustratedly. Why was everyone so thick? What use was it to be a free man when they never used their brains? When they never, ever _thought_?

"Don't you see? Each of them died _exactly_ the same way, no links between the victims and there won't be any. If I could just–"

He cut himself off.

"If you could what?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me", John prompted.

"It doesn't matter" he said, stood up and walked to the wall opposite that had become his bedroom. "I'm just a slave, after all."

It came out far more bitter than he had intended. He lay down and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, facing the wall. "If you don't need me, I'd like to rest. Goodnight, John."

John didn't say anything. The man stayed up for another hour or so before Sherlock heard him get up and walk to the kitchenette and back. The lights went off and he heard John make his way to the bed, his breathing soon turning into deep and steady rhythm Sherlock had by now learnt meant the man had fallen asleep.

He got up quietly, took John's mobile and let himself into the bathroom. He opened a new messaged and typed quickly.
    
    
    Back in London.
    I'll let you know
    how to contact me
    as soon as I can.
    Please reply before
    6AM or not at all.
    Do not contact me
    on this number
    otherwise.
    SH

He sent the message to the last number he knew Lestrade to have used. His personal phone number hadn't been available online and Lestrade did not know of his email address or website, so he could only hope. He erased the message from the sent file, turned the mobile off vibrate and on silent mode before returning to his bed on the floor. He kept the phone on his stomach, under the blanket and settled to wait.

* * *

Like his master, Sherlock was no stranger to nightmares. Scarce were the slave who never dreamt of the abuse they had suffered. It was not the first and unlikely the last time Sherlock woke up gasping for breath, half expecting to drown for several harrowing seconds before his brains caught up with the reality.

Stupid, stupid..! He had never been about to drown, yet it always happened in the dream.

For a moment he had no idea where he was. His eyes darted to search for anything familiar and he swallowed the lump in his throat as the disorientation started to fade. John Watson's flat. His latest master slept peacefully and comfortably in his bed on the other side of the room.

Just a familiar nightmare, he told himself, but it did nothing to silence the voice in his head that still cried desperately for her child.

"Oh my god, my baby! Please, oh god, my baby, my baby my babymybabymybabymybaby!"

The miserable chant rang in his ears, haunting him from the dream. From the past.

A part of him still wished he had never accepted the buoys that saved his life like some had done. Perhaps it would have been a kinder fate for him as well to drown after hypothermia took over. It certainly would have been for her.

He never learnt her name. Before becoming a permanent addition to his nightmares, she had been just another slave seeking for freedom. She had sat behind him on the boat and all he remembered was the baby crying almost constantly.

Seventeen, most likely. Judging by the size of the baby and by the fact that sixteen was the legal age for slaves to start having sex with their owners. At the time he had only recently passed the said milestone himself.

Sherlock closed his eyes, drawing a deep deliberate breath to calm his pounding heart. _Shit_. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Despite the warm blanket, he was shivering. Shivering like he had back then, wet to the skin, huddling together with the other escapees saved from the freezing water. Even now he could recall the desperate and utter feel of failure hanging heavily above him. Unlike the majority, he had failed before. He had known what would await him back in England. The previous wounds hadn't even been fully healed yet.

He didn't want to go through the events of that night, he never did, but the fleeting memories both from the dream and reality would tangle up in his head until he acknowledged them.

Blinding floodlights against the pitch black sea. That annoying baby crying and crying non-stop so loudly behind him he had heard it clearly above the engine's noise. It had been a small boat. Definitely not made for almost thirty people and not meant for crossing the North Sea. But he had thought it would have been enough.

Naïve, so naïve.

There was no need to cross the entire sea, they'd been told. Not in that boat. They would rendezvous with a proper ship at the international waters. Norwegian. Safe for soon former slaves.

Only it never happened. They did come across a ship, but it was British, not Norwegian. It had been foolish to try to outrun them, but they had tried anyway. It, all of it –the escape and any hopes for freedom ended when the boat capsized. Too much speed, too much load, too sharp of a turn. One moment the icy wind had been beating against his face and the man next to him had been squeezing his arm –the next it felt like all air had been knocked out from his lungs when he was thrown into the freezing water. For a moment there'd been no up or down, but before full panic had had time to settle in he'd found the surface. And up there it had been chaos.

"Oh my god, my baby! Please, oh god, my baby! Where is he, where is he?"

The floodlights blinded him and when he'd turned to look away, he'd seen the someone swim away alone to the open sea while the others tried to cling onto the boat. Lifebuoys had been thrown to them, and one by one each slave who accepted the buoys had been pulled to safety. Back to captivity.

And all that time the mother kept screaming hysterically for her unnamed son. Had still been crying and chanting the same words over and over again when she'd been dragged away by laughing fishermen.

"Hush, let's make you a new one."

"You should all just be fucked to death, you're a disgrace to your owners."

Yelling, shoving, threats and violence. And nothing else to do but to submit to it, to beg for forgiveness.

Sherlock swallowed and slowly unclenched his jaw. All in the past now. He couldn't forget it, but he could look at it, accept it and push it back to the furtherest corner of his mind where it had come form.

He the clutched the phone still lying on his stomach and risked checking it to get something else to think of. There were no new messages. On the other side of the room, John grunted in his sleep. Sherlock hid the phone quickly. Clearly his owner had a set of past horrors of his own haunting him in his sleep.

Slaves rarely talked of nightmares, but they all had them. Most of them practically grew up with them. He couldn't recall having them before the death of his parents, but he must have had them occasionally. Children normally did.

But what would normal _human_ children even have nightmares about? Sherlock's nightmares were made of the accident that led into his enslavement, of his four failed escape attempts that went into records (and he would never admit the third one was an escape), the slave club in which he had been illegally kept for three years, the violence under his seventh legal owner, being sold to Florida...

Florida especially, still far too recent and fresh in his mind. It felt like a miracle to be back in London. Compared to Florida, this was _freedom_ and he shuddered at the memories. How he'd sat in the filthy toilet cubicle, biting into his fist so that the keeper would not hear his sobs, skin still burning from the completely unnecessary smack across his back. He hadn't done anything, he'd had the proper pass to go to the toilet, but that's just how the keepers and paid free men workers were. He was a slave and as long as it didn't stop him from working, they could do whatever they wanted to him.

Looking back now, he felt sick of how he'd been. Sick at the fact that they'd been right at InS. It _had_ broken him.

He had quickly learnt to shut away those two and a half years of his life, learnt to treat it like a large hall in his mind palace and securely lock the doors. It was probably partially because he was still building those doors and locks that his previous owners had not wanted to keep him. And to know he'd been nearly put on the death row because of that...

Sherlock looked at John across the darkness. John was...interesting. He couldn't quite tell why. His master was just a plain, depressed soldier, yet there was something intriguing about him. It wasn't the way John treated him, not entirely. True, so far John had been far less violent and far more forgiving than some of his former owners, but John still drew a thick line between them. John was the master, he was a person. Sherlock was the slave, he was an object. Yet there was something about him that...fit.

And there was a part of him, a part that frightened him, whispering him to forget about fighting. Telling him it'd be so much easier to submit and finally, _finally_ just accept that this was how he would live the rest of his life. There would be no better master than John Watson had already proven to be.

It was the voice of reason and logic he so often listened without question, without hesitation. And it _hurt_ to have his reasoning betray him, yet he could not deny the rationality of it. He knew his situation, in and out. He knew what he was and he knew there was no way out of it. Not for him. He just refused to believe it.

But the fact remained he had technically already been put on the death row once. There would be no second chances. Should John give him back and should no one buy him...InS would deem him waste of money to feed until the next big auction day. It would be entirely possible they'd decide he wasn't even worth the paper work for one more auction. In that case he'd be lucky to be killed in the InS basement. He'd rather a quick death by lethal injection than be subjected to medical research. And even if someone did buy him, he knew it would not last. With nine past owners, no it'd be ten past owners, and the record he had he knew it would only give him a year or two more at best. Just seeing the scars on his back turned away most potential buyers. He'd known it when mistress Summers decided to sell him, and knowing how hard it would be for him to be sold, he had begged for her not to do it.

"Mistress please, please don't sell me. You're my ninth owner. No one will buy me."

She'd shook her head and fondled his curls. "Sorry, Ravenhair. You're entertaining and I've had fun with you. But you're also really difficult at times and you don't get along with the kids. I'm bored of you."

Even faked tears and promises to be better hadn't changed her mind. "Don't worry, I'll recommend you. InS will find a you nice new owner."

Whether that would've helped or not remained a mystery. He'd been given to John before InS even tried to sell him. Seemed unlikely they'd bother trying if John returned him.

John Watson was a fair owner who treated him with as much respect as it was possible for a free man to respect a slave. He was a man of strong morals, unlikely to start abusing his property. So far his new master hadn't even shown any sexual interest towards him. The most logical thing for him to do was to do all in his power to make sure this man would never have him changed or sold. He would never get another owner like this. He'd been branded a difficult slave ever since his second owner. No ordinary family would buy him. And John wasn't just a fair owner. He actually talked to him like to another human being and seemed to genuinely like his company. Hadn't even slept with him yet. Could a slave wish for more?

He stroked the inner side of his left wrist where he knew the tattoos to be. 99OR-79/3J3A. Such an innocent series of numbers and letters, yet they had the power to rob away his humanity.

 _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ , he repeated as a silent reminder.

He glanced at his sleeping owner again. There was no more sleep for Sherlock that night.

* * *

Holmes had been completely impossible ever since getting up. He had performed all his daily morning tasks, but as if each of them had personally offended him. He'd paced the small flat frustratedly, groaned in irritation when John had ordered the man to sit down and eat his damn breakfast. Holmes had obeyed, but soon started drumming the table with his fingers. He'd told him to stop which had led in Holmes ranting how being closed within four walls was slowly killing him mentally and how John as free man couldn't possibly understand what it was like for him, being a slave and having a brain in which the thoughts raced liked F1 cars, having a mind like an engine that would explode if not used properly. At this point John had ordered him to shut up unless he wanted John to discipline him again. It was disturbing how eager Holmes had looked for a second.

Holmes was like string that could snap any moment and resumed into pacing around the room despite John's numerous attempts to make him sit down and relax.

"I can't relax! This room is driving me mad, I can feel my braincells die, one by one! I need to get out!" he'd groaned.

"If you have so much energy you can use it to clean the oven!" John had yelled back at him before leaving the flat entirely, but not before reminding Holmes that there'd be severe consequences if he attempted to leave the flat without his consent. It remained a mystery why Holmes hadn't simply asked to be let out. John had thought they had reached some kind of an understanding over the matter after he'd caught him, but evidently not.

He was still on bad mood while limping through Russell Square Gardens when someone called his name: "John! John Watson!"

John turned around to see a smiling stranger get up from a bench he'd just passed. The man looked vaguely familiar, but John couldn't quite–

"Mike Stamford, we were at Bart's together", the stranger said and suddenly the pieces fell into place in John's head. Of course. He extended his hand.

"Mike. Yeah, sorry, of course."

"I know, I got fat", Mike joked good-humouredly.

"No, no", John denied as they shook hands, despite it was true. The Mike Stamford he remembered had been...considerably thinner.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at", Mike laughed. "What happened?"

John bit back all the immediate responses that came to his mind and fought back the impulse to hit the man's jaw. Instead he pursed his lips a little before responding: "I got shot."

Mike was too shocked for a second to start apologising and John cut him off when he did, but agreed to the offered coffee. Ten minutes later they sat down on the bench, sipping their take-aways.

"So, you're still at Bart's then?" he inquired more out of politeness than actual interest.

"Yeah, teaching. Brilliant lads like we used to be", Mike told before shaking his head in amusement. "God, I hate them."

He laughed, so John laughed with him.

"Still, it pays well", he mused. "I can afford a slave now, it's a great help."

"Really?" Well, there was something they had in common then. Something he might be able to discuss about. Ella would be so proud of him, socialising like this. "I actually just got myself a slave last week."

"You did?" Mike sounded surprised and John couldn't blame him. He probably didn't strike as the type to buy a slave. He'd always taken pride in the fact that he could be arsed to do things himself.

"Part of the pension" he explained. "I've got an army pension now."

"Oh, alright. Is she any good?"

"He's bit of a troublemaker", he grunted.

" _He_?" Mike sounded almost appalled. "They gave you a male?"

For reasons unknown, John felt defensive. "What's wrong with a male?"

"Nothing, nothing", Mike assured. "I just thought they'd, you know, give you a female. Care and comfort and all that. Or did you–?"

"No", he snapped, perhaps a little too quickly. "I didn't get to choose."

"That's unfortunate." Mike shrugged. "And strange. An army guy like you, one would think they'd provide you with a nice girl to take care of you."

"Well, they didn't." He sounded bitter even to his own ears. Damn Holmes. "Instead they gave me a rebellious, arrogant one."

"Arrogant, really? Recently enslaved then?" Mike wanted to know.

"See, that's the strange thing, because he isn't", John said, finger lingering near to his face for emphasis. "He's been a slave most of his life. I've never met a slave like him. It started out alright, he was really obedient and helpful, if a bit odd, but a good slave nevertheless. I did read his papers and I guess I should have taken what was written a bit more seriously, but he seemed like a real bargain..! Then I found out he had sneaked out of the house while I was away. And he used my computer. Now he's been completely impossible all morning. He does what he's told, but he talks back and argues, and behaves like I've insulted _him_."

Mike look dumbfounded. "Can you have him changed?"

"I can, but I'm not sure if I want to…" He was surprised the thought slipped between his lips. Did he really mean that? "It's like he's playing some sort of a game, trying to see how fast he can make me get rid of him."

"Sounds a bit odd. Maybe you should just remind him of his place?"

"That's what his papers suggest. It doesn't seem to have had much of an effect so far. I'm his tenth legal owner. And there's a three year gap where he was listed as lost property."

"Did he escape?"

"According to his own words, no." Holmes had been reluctant to talk about it or any of his previous escape attempts. Who knew how many there had been in reality? He was willing to bet there had been more than the recorded ones with police involvement.

"He's done it at least four times, though, but he kept saying the third one wasn't an escape attempt."

" _Four_ escape attempts?"

"Three times before the missing episode and once after it. He's lost his rights for an emancipation contract because of it."

"Well, I wouldn't have signed a contract for a slave like him anyway", Mike said somewhat disgustedly. "My slave behaves like a proper slave, but I wouldn't sign her a contract."

"I'm not sure I'd sign any kind of a contract at all, either", John muttered.

"No one should", Mike mused. "It's a ridiculous thing to do, not to mention completely irresponsible. Slaves don't know how to function as people. They have their purpose in life. It's thoughtless to take them that away, even if it might sound like mercy. Humans are not equal. That's just a fact."

John made an agreeing sound and sipped his coffee. He wondered if Holmes had ever asked for the contract before his rights for one had been stripped away. He certainly seemed eager to have himself freed. Or had been, at least.

The conversation moved on. He learnt that Mike was now a married man with children. They exchanged phone numbers and John agreed to see him again some time over a pint. Mike promised to ask around Bart's if there were any vacancies or need for a substitute.

John started to make his way back home, stopping only to buy some essentials. More shopping would require Holmes to carry the bags. As he was paying, something very strange happened. He could swear that for a moment, instead of his total, the cash register read HELLO JOHN.

"That's nice", he commented. Must be some kind of new hospitality thing he reasoned. Probably got his name from the card.

"What is?" the bloke behind the counter asked.

"The name thing."

"What name thing?"

But the text was gone already, so he brushed it off. Maybe the guy was new. Then a second odd thing happened when he stepped to the street. The phone in the phone box across the street was ringing. It stopped though when a group of teenagers approached it. Now that he thought of it, he was fairly certain it had been ringing when he got here as well.

Strange.

He decided to ignore it and limped away. He was only two streets away from home when it happened again. He paused briefly, but walked on. The ringing stopped when it became clear he wasn't answering it.

Street away from home and there it was again. The sound of a ringing phone. It didn't stop even though he walked past it.

John turned to look over his shoulder. The phone in the telephone box kept ringing, and if possible, it sounded even more demanding. Sighing John steeled himself, turned around and limped to the box, half expecting the ringing to stop any moment.

It didn't.

The box smelled of chips and there was someone's number scribbled on the window with words "for hot wet pussy" over it. And the phone kept ringing as he tentatively reached for it.

"Hello..?"

"Turn to your left. There's a camera at the top of the building across the street. Can you see it?"

"Who's this?" John asked. He didn't fully turn, just glanced to his left.

"Doctor Watson, answer me. Can you see it?"

A shiver ran through him as the distorted voice called him by his name. It was impossible to determine whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. He straightened his back. "Who are you?"

"Can you see the camera?" the voice demanded.

John turned. It took him a few seconds, but he located it. It was like an eye staring right at him. He nodded.

"Good", the voice acknowledged and to John's astonishment, the camera turned away. "There's another one to the right, a little higher. Do you see it?"

"Yes", John gasped, gripping the shopping bag. His heart was pounding and the blood was rushing in his ears, yet he was calm and his senses were alert. The second camera turned away.

"The third one is located behind you."

John spun around. "I see it."

"And finally, to the right, half behind that tree."

"What do you want? Who are you?" John asked, though dreading the answer as he saw a black car pull next to the phone box and its door opening.

"Go inside. There is much to talk. I'm sure you understand your position."

John hung up the phone and collected his cane. Seeing no other option, he did as he'd been told.

"Don't you have a slave to carry that for you?" a female voice asked him as he scrambled himself and his bag into the car.

"Yes, but he's not here now." The car moved immediately after the door closed. A click of the locks made it painfully obvious that he was trapped. The wall between the back of the car and the driver had been risen, and John realised there was a camera in each corner of it.

"Shame."

The woman was well-dressed in black and looked tall even sitting down. She had a round, playful face all business, long blonde hair and manicured fingernails that typed something on the phone she was carrying. She didn't look dangerous, but it was clear which one of them had the control.

"You've acquired him quite recently, haven't you?" the woman continued, putting away the mobile. "99OR-79/3J3A."

"I believe that's none of your business."

"It might be."

John's knuckles curled over the cane. He could use it as a weapon should the need arise. It didn't sit well with him to hit a woman, but he would if he had to. "No, it really isn't."

The woman smiled humourlessly. "Nevertheless, your slave is the reason I'm here."

"He's just a normal slave. Since you know my name and that I have him, you should know that, too. I got him with my pension."

"Yes, I'm aware. It's unfortunate that we learnt he'd been brought back to the country just recently."

"We? What do you want with my slave?"

"My employer would be willing to pay a considerable sum of money for your new slave."

"He's not for sale", John said immediately. He surprised even himself by the confidence in his statement.

"I haven't mentioned the figure."

"It really wouldn't make any difference. I don't have the rights to sell him." It was true, after all, but even if it wasn't, he had a strong feeling he would not sell Holmes to this lady for any amount of money. Something was off about her.

"Yes, but you could still return him. My employer would be happy to pay you for doing that."

"No."

" _Doctor Watson_ ", she stressed, "you're not a wealthy man. I am talking of the kind of sums you could live in relative comfort with for the rest of your life."

"I'm not selling him."

"You have no job. My employer can arrange you one anywhere you'd like", she told. Her tone reminded him of a school teacher.

She went on: "How about your living arrangements? You don't live well. Just a word and a penthouse by the Thames can be arranged. A job at any of the hospitals in London? It can be done. Or if this island is too small for you, just name your favourite country. A beach house in Thailand? How about New York? All of that? And of course, the Institute will give you a new slave, but if one isn't enough... What's your favourite brand?" She paused to think for a second.

"How about a Rose's, do you like Rose's?" she suggested. "They're famed for their appearance and performance. How about a set of twins from Rose's? Just return the slave, and any of this could be yours. Name your price."

"I'm not interested."

"You do not understand what you're dealing with, Doctor Watson."

"No, and I don't want to. Stop this car and let me out. This isn't negotiable, the slave's not for sale!"

For a moment there was such anger in her eyes that John prepared for being slapped. But as quickly as the anger had appeared, as soon it was gone. She smiled, completely calm and handed him a business card.

"Take it. Have a good night's sleep and think it over. You might change your mind."

"I don't think so", he grunted, but took the card. There was only a single letter M printed on the white, glossy surface with a phone number under it.

"M? What's M?"

"An interested party", she smirked. The car stopped and the locks unlocked. John gathered his cane and shopping bag.

"We've arrived. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

"I bloody well hope so", John spat, slamming the door behind him. The car took off and he watched it until it turned away from the street. He'd been left neatly at his own front door, driven a circle around the neighbouring blocks. What on earth had that been about?

* * *

On the other side of London, a man sat in front of a laptop. A video feed of Doctor John Hamish Watson collecting his items and exiting the car played on its screen.

His hand reached to pause the footage as the car's door slammed closed, and his employee turned to look at one of the cameras.

He leant back on his seat, pondering the situation for a moment before closing the lid.

"Interesting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know how you feel and what think about it, if you can spare a moment. ♥


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind and encouraging comments. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.

John looked at the business card in his hand, contemplating whether to just throw it away. He didn't want to worry Holmes with it. He'd done some thinking after talking with Mike. Perhaps Holmes behaved the way he did because he was insecure. So many owners seemed to have abandoned or mistreated him. No wonder he didn't feel comfortable with yet another new owner. Slaves were like pets in that sense. If they were mistreated they couldn't trust their owners. Perhaps Holmes's behaviour would improve if John showed him he would be treated well and be cared for. It might make things worse if Holmes had a reason to believe John might get rid of him because he had been offered money.

Surely Holmes wasn't truly that bad, he reasoned, climbing up the stairs. Just mistreated. And misunderstood. His papers labeled him stupid, but he was nothing like that. He had a brilliant mind, he just didn't get to use it productively.

Holmes had considerably calmed down since the morning. When John opened the door and stepped in, he found his property lying on his back in the middle of the room, arms and legs spread so that his body took all the floor space. His eyes were open, but he didn't stir or seem to notice John's presence until he leant over him and lowered the shopping bag gently on his stomach.

It took a moment for Holmes focus at him, as if he'd been somewhere far away in his thoughts. "Welcome home, master."

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"Did you clean the oven?"

"No, I need stronger chemicals than soap."

John hummed. "We'll buy some then. Can't have you staying idle all day."

Holmes took the plastic bag to the kitchen, switching the kettle on as he started emptying it.

John stood in the middle of the room, still uncertain of whether to tell Holmes of the offer he had received or not. It still felt like a bad idea to let the slave know someone wanted to buy him, but he was also curious. Maybe Holmes would know who it had been.

"Am I doing something wrong?"

John snapped out of his thoughts at the irritated question. "What? No, why?"

"You keep staring at me. Clearly there's something."

Holmes frowned and John glanced at his hand holding the business card. He tucked it quickly back into his pocket where it had been. He hadn't noticed he had slipped it out.

"What's that?"

"None of your business."

"Looks like a card. Slave agency, perhaps?"

"I can't sell you."

Holmes shrugged and continued his task. "You could still rent me full time. Did you get enough of me already?"

"No. Absolutely not, no", he denied. "Holmes, I'm not going to throw you away."

"You're not very good at lying, John. It's something to do with me."

John sighed. Perhaps it was just better to ask than mull over it forever.

"Fine. Do you have any idea who "M" could be?" he asked reluctantly.

Sherlock froze, but only for a second.

"M?" he repeated hesitantly and turned to face his master. "No, doesn't ring a bell."

"Yeah? I was approached by someone. This someone offered me a huge sum of money for you."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes averted. "And you didn't take it?" he asked, even though it sounded unbelievable for someone to offer to buy him like that. Who, out of the people who could, would want him?

"No. You don't like it here? You sound almost disappointed."

"I do, but you could do with the money."

John shrugged. "Well I don't feel like selling you. And as it's been established, I can't sell you."

"Lucky me", Sherlock sighed, but his mind was already racing. There was only one person in the world who'd pay anything in his power to own him, but neither owning him nor buying him were within his powers. M could only be Mycroft. But why offer to buy him when Mycroft was equally aware of the impossibility of his emancipation? If he was planning something, why now and what? How? He wanted to ask John how he had been approached, but John would find it suspicious.

Truth to be told, Sherlock was surprised it had taken his brother this long to find out he was back in the country. Or perhaps it was because he had given up on thinking Sherlock would ever return, dead or alive, and had only found out by accident. Sherlock wouldn't blame him. He had not believed he'd ever see London again, either.

But why make an offer to buy him, when they both knew it was impossible? Or had he found some kind of a loop hole?

No, absolutely not, he dismissed immediately. He would not even consider it. There were no loop holes in slavery. The laws had been perfected with hundreds of years of history. Yet people argued the laws as they were today were way too loose. He would not let any false hope seep into his heart. Whatever Mycroft's plan was, it would not include his legal freedom. He would never be freed of the stigma. He would always be a slave.

He turned his back at John and grabbed a carton of milk to put it away.

"Would rice and scrambled eggs be satisfactory for dinner?" he asked to change the subject.

John chuckled amusedly. "I'm gonna have to buy you a cook book."

"Is that a no?"

"No, it'll work for now. Carry on."

John sat at the desk, contemplating whether to write about the odd meeting with the woman in the car. Ella might think he made it up. But at least there were Holmes and Mike to write about.

"I met a friend today", he told, not entirely sure why. He supposed it was just nice to have someone to talk to. He was reminded of Ella writing down "friend" and fought the urge to grimace. He wasn't thinking Holmes as a friend. Absolutely not. Plenty of people talked to their slaves, he reasoned, though a small voice insisted only lonely and old people actually considered their slaves conversation material. He was reminded of an old man who lived on the other side of the street when he and Harry were kids. He often sat in his tiny front garden or walked painfully slowly to the news agency at the end of the street. His slave always followed him, listening to the same stories over and over again, always laughing at his jokes, always responding to them with interest and enthusiasm, regardless of having heard them hundreds of times already.

"Mike Stamford, a mate from Bart's", he continued, pushing back the thoughts. Normal people talked to their slaves, too. "Promised to meet him again later."

Holmes made a sound to acknowledge he was listening. It encouraged John to continue and soon he found himself babbling all sorts of things from his time in medical school. Holmes listened dutifully, never interrupting or showing signs of boredom. He actually even asked a few questions, though all of them concerning something technical rather than something personal. Nevertheless, John was only too happy to provide him with answers.

"But I guess I need to move out", he sighed eventually. "I just can't sustain living in London with the army pension."

For the first time during their one sided conversation Holmes seemed alert. "You'd move away from London?"

"I don't want to, but I'll have to, eventually. I hate this flat anyway."

"No, out of question", Holmes said firmly.

"You don't get to decide that", John laughed out in surprise. Holmes sounded and looked like he was entirely serious.

"No, absolutely impossible", the slave muttered, biting his lip. After a while of thinking he said, very carefully: "What if I said I knew a place? Here, in London. Around the same price you pay now, maybe a bit more, but a much better location and better rooms."

"I can't even afford this one."

"You could, easily, if you had a job", Holmes insisted. "And you could always rent me for some extra", he added a bit reluctantly. "You can get me a work permit, I could work at night or when you're not home."

"Right... Well, pretend for a while I'm considering this. Where is this place you're talking about?"

"Baker Street. Short walk from Baker Street Station."

"Baker Street?" John repeated in disbelief before laughing. "That's right in the middle of London! How on earth do you imagine I could afford Baker Street when I barely afford this?"

The slave looked insulted. "Give me your phone and I'll arrange it."

"How?" John questioned, despite already digging into his pocket for the phone unconsciously. He had never heard a slave speak with such a demanding tone.

Holmes snatched away the mobile before he could refuse and was immediately typing a number from memory. The phone was dialling almost immediately. Someone at the other end picked up after several rings and then, out of nowhere, Holmes's entire composure changed. He had yet to see his slave this animate as he suddenly had become.

"Mrs Hudson, how are you?" he practically beamed to the phone and after a second confirmed: "Yes, it's me."

Holmes circled around the room while listening to the other speaker.

"No, I was handed to a new owner. He's why I'm calling. No, no, I'm fine. He's been very good to me. Listen, are you still looking for that tenant? My new master is in dire need of accommodation."

Holmes flashed a smile at John. "Would half four be too early?"

The question clearly wasn't meant for him, but John felt to need to have a say in this. "Wait, don't make any–"

Holmes held out a finger to stop him. "Excellent. Goodbye, Mrs Hudson."

"Half four" John exclaimed. "When?"

"Tomorrow. She's agreed to meet you. I'm certain she can offer you bigger rooms for the same price. You only need to find a job."

"At Baker Street?" he questioned again. Was he out of his mind? The room had to be tiny.

"I know the landlady, she owes me a favour. Sort of. She'll give you a special deal."

"Your previous owner, you mean."

"What?"

"Don't you mean she owes your previous owner a favour?"

"No, _me_ ", Holmes confirmed with utter confidence.

"But you're a slave."

"And I helped her out", the slave said. "I'm sure she'll tell you all about it if you ask nicely."

John knew he wouldn't get more out of him. Nor should he. Whatever his slave had witnessed in the hands of his previous owners was none of John's business, and Holmes should never reveal anything personal about his previous owners. John understood that, and accepted it. If he were to ever sell Holmes, he wouldn't want the slave to talk about him, either.

The next day they headed for Baker Street. They took the tube, and arrived to the Baker Street station a little before the agreed half past four.

"How do you even know this person?" John couldn't help but to ask after they had located each other again at the barriers and emerged to the street. As a slave, Holmes had been travelling in a different car. "You said you helped her."

"Before my previous owner", Holmes explained, "I had been sold to Florida. Her husband owned the company that owned me. He was sentenced to death and I helped with that."

"You saved her husband from a death sentence?"

Holmes gave him a confused look. "No, I made sure he would never get out of prison alive."

"You _what_?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I gathered evidence, she managed to make people listen. She had them recognise it was thanks to me he was ever convicted. As a reward I was granted a request, within some limitations, naturally."

John didn't say anything, merely lifted an eyebrow.

"Well, I couldn't ask to be freed, for instance."

"What did you request, then?" John asked as Holmes stopped at a black door next to a sandwich bar.

"To be sold back to London, of course", Holmes stated and rang the doorbell.

* * *

A year into this world, to this never ending load of work. It was sometimes hard to remember anything existed before it. Hard to remember who he was. That he was a person at all.

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

The name meant less and less as the days went by.

 _99OR-79/3J3A_. The stigma still existed, faded as it was because it hadn't been re-tattooed since his previous owner bought him. Even the stigma meant little now, but he would have preferred the familiar code to being nothing. His collar labeled him as No. 38, but it wasn't his name. He didn't have a name here.

London was but a dream.

He had long since abandoned his native accent. It had only made him the favourite target for the keepers and overseers to pick on. The couple phrases he ever spoke came naturally American now.

Yes, master. I'm sorry, master. Here, master. Thank you, master. Please, master. May I, master? Thirty-eight, master. Can I be of use, master?

"Master", or occasionally "mistress", was his new full stop and little else ever came out of his mouth these days. Everyone here was a master. At first the change in his accent made them bully him even worse, but eventually they grew bored of him.

Despite the work wasn't the same each day, the days still blended into an endless loop of hard, physical work and too little time to rest. There was nothing here but work and sleep. Each day had him waiting nothing but the sweet unconsciousness and the few hours of break that would always end too soon. But there was no tomorrow here. No next week, no next month, no next year. The future didn't exist, for if he thought of the days he still had ahead of him, he would not get through today.

He still saw, but he had learnt to ignore. Looking at people for too long meant trouble. Telling what he saw meant pain. He thought he must have imagined it, when his attention was caught by a woman's voice with an English accent. It pulled his mind out of the stagnation, it rang clear above the noise. His eyes sought frantically for its source, his conscious self not quite trusting it had been real.

But she spoke again and gears shifted in his head to their proper positions. He hadn't imagined it. It was real. She was real. He gaped at the woman standing near the offices. When she turned and started walking away with a freeman worker, he panicked.

No. No, she couldn't go away. Not yet, not now!

Without thinking any further, Sherlock grabbed the closest box he could carry and rose to go after her.

"What are you doing?" hissed the slave he'd been working with.

"Cover for me. I _have to_ talk to her."

"No, don't! Shit, come back! You're getting both of us in trouble!"

He didn't care. All that mattered now was to know who the woman was. It didn't matter he was a slave and she wasn't. The pull for her and the yearning for something familiar were all he could think of, and in that moment there was nothing more important in the world than figuring out who this person was and to hear her speak again.

He found her sitting alone on a bench outside the warehouse. It was dangerously close to the main gates for Sherlock to be, but he cared little of that right now. He set the box aside and promptly walked to her.

"You are British", he stated boldly. He should have kneeled, he shouldn't have looked at her directly, but for a moment he was his old self.

She started at the sudden voice, then blinked and shaded her eyes with her hand against the sun.

"So are you", she replied. Her eyes moved from his face to the loose metal collar around his neck and the distinctive clothing he wore. Sherlock bowed his stubbled head and cast his eyes down.

"How did you end up so far from England?" she asked, not bothered by him standing. It wasn't uncommon in Europe for slaves to remain standing. "I've never met an English slave here before."

"InS thought I was too much trouble for them to handle."

She laughed good-humouredly at that. "I haven't noticed you before. Have you been here for long?"

"Almost a year", he replied. With all the shipments in and out it was easy to keep a track of the dates. Horrifyingly so. There was no escape from the knowledge of how long he had been here.

She nodded approvingly. "Do you like working for my husband's company?"

_Husband._

While Sherlock had never even seen the man, he knew the company –and he himself were owned by a man named Hudson. His eyes widened in horror with the realisation and he dropped on his knees instantly.

 _Oh, stupid, stupid!_ What an idiot he had been! He had known he'd be flogged anyway if caught, but he might as well kiss goodbye to half the meals for a week or more. He would be sent to clean toilets and waste containers. There were rumours of slaves accidentally being killed when beaten for disrespecting the people in administrative positions.

"I'm _so_ sorry, mistress. Yes, I love it here! The masters are very kind. I'm sorry, I didn't realise whom I was talking to. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, mistress, please."

"Oh it's alright, it's fine!" she hurried to reassure him. "Don't be afraid. It's nice to hear a familiar accent once in a while. I haven't been to England for two years now. I always think about visiting, we have a house in London you see, but my husband is so busy and well..." She let out a breath. "There's just no time."

"Thank you, mistress", Sherlock sighed in relief. He took her hand with his own shaky one to kiss her knuckles like it was done back home. A formal apology. It felt like the right thing to do, despite that the old him would have never done so willingly. As strange as it was, it felt infinitely good to touch someone like this. Here he never touched another human being. The only times anyone ever touched him were to hurt him.

She flinched, however, and pulled her hand away.

"Forgive me", he murmured, pulling his own hand away reluctantly. It really was none of his business. He knew he should ignore it, but... Curiosity got the better of him.

"Did your husband do that?" he asked before thinking of the possible consequences. While the bruise on her wrist was now hidden under her sleeve, she knew immediately what he was referring to.

Her expression was so startled it alone was enough of an answer.

"I'm sorry", he offered. He and every other slave here had endured far worse, but he truly felt sorry for her. Perhaps it was the slave mentality talking, but she was a free woman. She didn't deserve to be abused by anyone.

Mrs Hudson smoothened the fabric of her dress over her legs. "What's your name?" she asked as if nothing had happened. "Not your collar number. What were you called before you came here?"

"Sh–." No, that wasn't it. "Holmes."

Their brief exchange was interrupted with an angry voice calling: "Hey! You. What are you doing out here?"

Like an animal caught in the headlights, Sherlock froze momentarily. The man was one of his keepers and his cane hit him on the back as he hastily kowtowed. Mrs Hudson stood up, yelping in surprise.

"Daniel!" she squawked. "Leave the slave alone."

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. This slave's been trouble in the past." He grasped Sherlock's collar and forcefully pulled him up on his feet. "I'll have him flogged for bothering you. He shouldn't be out here at all. He'll be dealt with."

"You'll do no such thing! He's here because I told him to be here."

Sherlock gulped air and coughed when the man let go.

"Yeah? Sorry about that then. But we're one worker short if he's here."

Mrs Hudson touched her forehead briefly, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Of course, yes. Sorry. You can take him back", she said. She looked down at Sherlock and for a moment their eyes met before Sherlock looked away.

"Give him some water first."

Sherlock straightened his back and bowed. "Thank you, mistress."

Faked accent back in place he hurriedly followed the keeper back in and to his work station. With an extra bottle of water instead of a punishment. A few hours later as he lay on his bunk, body already on sleep mode and his mind tracing the edges of dreams, his thoughts lingered on Mrs Hudson. For the first time in months he dared to approach the subject of ever leaving this place. For the first time in months there was something that made it worth to think of the future. Befriending her could proof very beneficial indeed.

* * *

Despite the traffic, John could hear someone running to the door before it was flung open. A young boy, twelve or thirteen of age, flustered with excitement stood at the threshold.

"Mr Holmes?" he inquired with a grin.

"More or less", Holmes replied. John hit his ankle with his cane to remind him he was no mister. The slave ignored him and the boy had already dashed back in, calling for his mistress.

He soon reappeared, trailing a woman perhaps in her late sixties or early seventies. She beckoned them in and as soon as the door had closed behind them, pulled Holmes into a tight embrace, which the slave returned awkwardly. John had no time to warn her or tell him off. He gaped at her.

"Er... He's a slave", he told her, although it was too late already.

Mrs Hudson let go and smiled fondly at Holmes. "Oh, I know. I don't mind."

She turned to him. "You must be the new owner?"

"Ah, yes. Yes. John Watson. How do you do."

"Yes, yes. Master, this is Mrs Hudson, Mrs Hudson, my new owner Dr Watson", Holmes did the introductions impatiently.

She shook her head, but smiled. "Upstairs then, Dr Watson. Billy", she addressed the boy, evidently her slave, "put the kettle on."

Holmes was already halfway up the stairs.

"Always dashing about", Mrs Hudson sighed, but sounded amused more than anything. "My husband was just the same."

Considering what he had just heard of the said husband, John didn't know how to respond. Holmes was waiting for him at the second landing, in front of two doors. He opened one of them, showing him in. Clearly he had been to the house before.

The door which Holmes had opened led to a sitting room with two tall windows facing the street. The room looked like it had been renovated and not touched since. The wallpapers were modern and stylish, the furniture cozy, but a mishmash of this and that. The other door from the landing, he realised, led into the kitchen that was joined to the sitting room. A full size kitchen compared to his current one. Holmes led him to a short corridor that led to a bathroom and a bedroom, both of them probably added to the house later by knocking down a wall.

"What do you think, Dr Watson?" Mrs Hudson asked. Billy had followed them and stood now behind her, curiously eying at the visitors.

"It's wonderful", John told truthfully. But he couldn't see how he could ever afford a place like this.

"He'll take it", Holmes assured her.

"Wait, I don't know if I–"

"There's a another bedroom upstairs if you'd rather have that one", she informed him worriedly. "It's smaller and doesn't have a cupboard for Holmes, but you could get a bed with slave space. It's more private. In case I get another tenant. But the only bathroom is here."

"No, I– That's not what I meant. I mean, this room", he gestured at the bedroom behind the kitchen. He hadn't even noticed it had a cupboard. "It's great, but I can't see how–"

"He'll take it", Holmes repeated, efficiently cutting him off.

"All the furniture is included", she added hopefully. "Or I can have the rooms emptied."

John swallowed. Three pairs of eyes looked at him, anticipating. But if the rent truly would be around the same as Holmes had assured him it would be... If he'd get a job he could afford it. It wouldn't leave him much cash to spare, but he could rent Holmes... The location was more than perfect, the rooms were more than he could hope for. It came with furniture.

"I, uh... Yes. I'll take it."

* * *

Holmes had sat in silence on the floor with young Billy while John and Mrs Hudson negotiated the terms of the rent over a cup of tea at her flat downstairs. As Holmes had promised, the price was about the same as the one to his current flat. They'd parted with a mutual agreement that John would move in as soon as he could. All in all, he was very happy with the result.

As was Holmes. He beamed on their way back and John couldn't help, but to smile as well. Holmes may have been difficult to deal with, but John just knew his initial thought had been right: Holmes was a real bargain. They stopped at a Chinese on their way and John treated Holmes a take away of his own. They'd just stepped out when John's phone chimed.

He didn't recognise the number. Holmes leant closer to see, then snatched the mobile from his hand. "Hey–!"

"Change of plans", the slave said bluntly after reading the text. "We need to go to Lauriston Gardens, Brixton."

"What?" John yelped, but Holmes was already waving them a taxi.

"Lauriston Gardens!" Holmes repeated annoyedly, tossing back the phone. John barely caught it in time. "Hurry up!"

"Laurist– Wait, Holmes, what are you–?"

But the slave was already in the car, the bag of take-aways by his feet on the floor and John had no other option, but to limp after him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he growled as soon as the door behind him closed. "How dare you–"

"I've been asked to go", Holmes cut him off. "By Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I texted him a while ago to let him know I'm in London again."

John checked the messages, but the only new one was the one from unknown number.
    
    
    Lauriston Gardens, Brixton.  
    
    Come if you can.

"Why?" he questioned the slave.

"There's been a fourth", Holmes said and steepled his hand under his nose. A wide smile spread on his face.

"A fourth _what_?"

"Murder."

" _What?!_ Where exactly are you taking me?"

"A crime scene."

John scoffed. "Why would anyone want _you_ at a crime scene? They've got their own slaves."

"Not one like me."

"Yeah? What's so special about you?"

Holmes drew a breath as if he did not really want to reply. "They're going to consult me."

This time John laughed. "Consult? _You_? The police don't consult amateurs, much less a slave."

Holmes's expression darkened. "When you got me, and I asked you "Afghanistan or Iraq", you were surprised."

"Well, yes, that was brilliant, but it's–"

"You've killed a slave, haven't you?"

A stunned silence followed his words. John stared at him, lips still parted in mid-speech.

"I doubt you did it on purpose, but you blame yourself."

"Did you–? How? If you've–"

Holmes raised his hands either to protect himself or reassure John, and pressed his back against the seat, putting as much distance between them as he could in the taxi. "I didn't research you or spy on you or go through your things, I _swear_. I didn't need to. I know the same way I know your brother Harry's a drinker."

"Sister. I've a sister", dumbfounded John corrected. "Why would you accuse me of that? How _dare_ you accuse me?"

"I'm not accusing you. I wouldn't do that", Holmes assured him. "But it's true, isn't it?"

John lowered the hand he hadn't realised he had raised. His slave's posture relaxed, but only a little. He leant back on his seat as well.

When John said nothing, Holmes speculated further: "That, or at least you've very closely witnessed something you think you should've prevented."

John wetted his lips and straightened his back. "My father was charged for beating up a slave to death. He was drunk."

Holmes steepled his fingers and tilted his head as he looked at John. "So not something you saw or could have prevented. You've personally done it."

"I was an army doctor. Of course I've euthanised slaves."

It had been his sad duty to assure the soon to be dead slaves that yes, they had been very useful indeed and that no it wouldn't hurt at all.

"Euthanised", Holmes repeated, tasting the word. "Is that what it's called in the army? It's so... _clinical_. I would've thought you just", he shrugged and waved his hand nonchalantly, "line them up and shoot them in the head."

John frowned aversively. "That'd be really messy."

"It is. But putting down slaves is not what I meant. You _know_ what I mean."

John looked away. Holmes would know of course if he lied, but it wouldn't really matter, would it? John's word was his law, John's truth was his truth. He eyed at the plexiglass between them and the driver. Even if the driver had heard them, he didn't seem to care.

"How do you know?"

"The way you treat me gives it away. You didn't really want me and you feel –well not guilty for owning me, but _uneasy_. And it's not because you'd be against slavery, or even because I'm a man. You don't want to be called a master, because you question yourself as a slave owner. You won't hit me until I've really struck a nerve. I know you seem to think all my previous owners were abusive, but you're wrong. Most of my owners were perfectly normal people. Good, kind people. Even they hit me more than you do. You're afraid that once you start, you won't stop. You're afraid you'll go too far. Because it's happened before, hasn't it?"

John didn't need to say anything. The look on his face was all the confirmation Holmes needed.

"Twice", he admitted. "I've killed a slave twice."

Holmes nodded slowly. If the knowledge surprised or terrified him, it didn't show.

"There's been two or three times I maybe went a bit too far in Afghanistan. But I didn't kill anyone or permanently harm anyone. And I stopped others from doing too much harm more often than I remember. But yes. I've killed a slave. Once when I was just a kid, once in university."

"Your rugby pals. I thought so", Holmes mused.

"How do you know they were involved?"

"You were reluctant to go. You looked at me differently. You seemed guilty. Especially after you were back."

"He took care of the rugby field and the locker rooms", John began quietly. It wasn't something he'd remember with warmth or something he was proud of.

"Bit...simple. We always had to repeat orders and use simple sentences. He always arranged our shoes real neatly while we were playing. And he just loved finding chewing gum stuck under the benches. We used to make fun of him all the time. Play pranks on him and try to annoy him. He wasn't very good at his job, but it was all there was to his life. We used to beat him, just for fun. And one time..."

John sighed and shook his head helplessly. "It just went too far. The next day he was dead. Died of internal bleeding."

It had been perhaps the worst day in his life thus far. To hear that the slave had died and he had been part of it. For the first time it had fully hit him that slaves were actually living human beings. And he had just killed one.

"It wasn't just me, but I was one of the worst. It might as well have been my kick that killed him."

Holmes didn't seem fazed by the story in the least.

"You didn't get criminal record, though", the slave observed. "They wouldn't have given me to a person with history of violence against slaves."

"No, I didn't. No one did. Everybody knew, but no one wanted to make a scene of it. It was easier to just get a new slave. InS should know we were all involved with a slave's death, but no one was blamed for it."

"And the other?" Holmes prompted.

John shrugged, not really wanting to go into this. But he supposed Holmes needed to know. He was his charge now, so Holmes should know.

"It was an accident. We were kids and didn't know better. We thought it would be fun to bully my friend's pet. We dared him to do stuff. Climb trees, run past cars... I dared him to climb a roof and he fell. Steve's parents were really mad, understandably. So were mine. They had to pay Steve's parents, pet's a big investment, but the police was never involved."

He'd been eight. He didn't remember playing with Steve ever again.

Holmes tilted his head. "He didn't die by your hand."

"No, but it was still my fault. We forced him and the roof was my idea."

His slave shrugged. "He could have just as easily been hit by a car."

"Thanks, but that was my idea, too. I know we were just kids, but it was stupid. I should've known better."

John loosened his grip on the cane. "Were you ever a pet?" he asked, just to change the subject.

"No. I was an investment, but my owners didn't have children."

"What was the investment then?"

"I've played the violin since I was four. My mistress kept me practising. She was a violin tutor. I was supposed to become a tutor as well."

John chuckled. "Let me guess: you were terrible at it and they sold you."

"I was not", Holmes denied offendedly. "They sold me because my master's roof and insulation company went bankrupt."

"How long did you stay with them, then?"

"About six years."

John whistled. Six years was a long time, considering that out of the twenty-something years he'd been enslaved he'd been missing for three years and owned by nine different people.

"Were they these "normal people" you mentioned?"

"Yes. They were... They were good to me."

 _Good to me_ or alternatively _kind to me_ were both phrases any slave would use to describe their owners no matter what kind of owners they were. They were empty words. It was no more than a polite phrase, but something in the softness of Holmes's voice betrayed there was more to it. John had never thought of it before, but it must have been a huge shock for a child to be sold to slavery, to move in with strangers who became his owners.

"You've had abusive owners, though, haven't you? You said they wouldn't give you to anyone with history."

"Once", Holmes admitted. "He got a twelve-year slave keeping ban out of it, I had my potential emancipation date moved by twenty years. So Clara's your sister then?" the slave asked, changing the subject as well.

"It's rare for a husband to take the wife's name, but it happens. So she gave her husband's phone to you?" Holmes speculated almost to himself. "The phone she gave him. A messy divorce?"

"Harry's short for Harriet", John corrected. "How do you know she's an alcoholic?"

"Harriet! So I was right after all. Almost."

Holmes looked delighted to return to his original theory, and delivered a maddeningly quick speech about Harry's shaking hands and how John didn't get along with her.

John shook his head slowly in amazement. "Unbelievable. You got all that from a phone? You're amazing, you know that?"

Holmes smirked. "Like you said. Slave or not, the police don't consult amateurs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Please let me know of your thoughts if you can spare a moment. :)


	6. Chapter 6

It took nearly two weeks until Sherlock saw Mrs Hudson again. She didn't see him, and he had no way of getting to her.

Three days later from that, he was finally able to approach her for the second time. Head bowed and eyes cast down he thanked her for saving him from the keepers wrath. She was happy to see him, and invited him to walk with her, but Sherlock had to decline. He wanted nothing more than to take an advantage of her charitable offer, but he couldn't. He had duties to perform, and even if he had her invitation, he still would have to get his load of work done by the end of his shift.

She understood. Even if their exchange had been brief, even if she hadn't truly done anything, just being talked to like a real human being was the greatest piece of kindness he had received in months. Seeing her, getting to talk to her, even if it was just greeting her to have her look at him became like drug to him. And oddly enough, she seemed to equally seek him out. She wanted to talk to him, she found excuses to have him removed from his post to attend to her. Other slaves noticed of course and grew jealous of him quickly. It was devastating to have his fellow slaves treat him the same his keepers did, but Sherlock ignored it the best he could. It didn't matter. He wouldn't stay here forever.

Six weeks went by, and talking to her confirmed everything he already knew. Mrs Hudson was stuck in an unhappy marriage with an abusive, unfaithful man. Mr Hudson was unpredictable and often violent. At this point he didn't even bother trying to hide his younger lovers from her. Or the true nature of his work. She knew too much to get away. Her husband's company, while perfectly legal and reasonably profitable, was a mere cover for the cartel working behind the scenes. Marijuana, mostly, but also weapons and slaves.

An idea began to form in Sherlock's mind. A plan to get them both away. Dangerous, of course, but his life was already dangerous. Even just suggesting it was potentially dangerous. If he was wrong about Mrs Hudson and the lengths she'd be willing to go, she could have him killed for disloyalty. Even if she agreed, standing up against a drug cartel could easily get them both killed, him especially since Mr Hudson had every legal right to kill him should he want to.

She was sceptical at first, as expected. Like a slave would look at its master and think the master had all the power in the world and nothing could be done about it, she would think the same about her husband and the cartel. She had lived for years in the fear of them. But she was not a coward. Anything but.

A week later Sherlock had himself successfully moved into the cartel's service. And they were going to take it down.

* * *

The scene of crime was easy to spot as soon as the cab pulled to the street. Sherlock waited impatiently for John to pay and strode far before him to the police cars with their flashing lights. They were just secluding the area with tape. Lestrade's back was easy to recognise.

"Holmes, wait up!" his master shouted, trying to keep up with him with his limp. He stopped, but reluctantly. Several heads turned to their direction and Lestrade noticed him.

"Sherl–!"

" _Detective Inspector_ Lestrade!" Sherlock hurried to interrupt the man's greeting. "So good to see you again", he said with a bow. "It's _Holmes_ now", he stressed, just audibly enough for him to hear it.

"Bloody hell, it really is you", Lestrade marvelled. "Where on earth have you been?"

"InS sold me to Florida", he explained, but before he could say anything more, John caught up.

"You know each other?" he demanded, irritated by his slave talking to a stranger and ignoring his master.

"Ah, yes", Sherlock said, turning around upon noticing his mistake. "Detective Inspector, this is my current owner Doctor John Watson. Master, this is DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard."

John wanted to wince, but the Detective Inspector didn't seem to care or notice how the slave should have introduced them the other way around. He offered his hand to the man, and although Lestrade shook it, his attention remained on the slave.

"It's good to see you again. There've been a few cases you would've cracked a lot quicker than we did. How long have you been back?" he wanted to know.

"Undoubtedly", Sherlock agreed. "Almost fourteen months. But just little over a week with master Watson."

"Really? I tried to get the department to buy you back then, you know. After that last case, and when they refused I figured I'd just buy you myself, but you'd already been sold by the time I got there."

"And shipped to Florida, yes, thank god for that. I would've made a terrible slave for you", Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Your wife would've hated me."

"Yeah, probably", Lestrade agreed, grimacing at the mental image of Sherlock at his home.

"Er, excuse me", John interrupted, "but what do you mean "cases"?"

"Your slave's been helpful with a few police cases in the past", Lestrade explained. "He used to be owned by the Yard –sort of. Hasn't he told you?"

"No, never. He doesn't talk much about his previous owners."

"Oh." Lestrade shrugged. "Apparently there's something he can do right."

Sherlock cleared his throat annoyedly. "I wasn't owned by the Yard, I was evidence. Anyway, what do we have?" he prompted tetchily.

Lestrade turned his attention back to the slave. "Well, you've probably read the news, it's been all over for a while now. Three identical suicides, but no connection between the victims. And now a fourth."

"They're not suicides", Sherlock immediately contradicted. "They are murders."

"How can you be sure of it?"

"Like you said, it's all over the news." He raised his eyebrow. " _You know_ they're murders."

"Well, yes, my gut says they are, but the evidence..." He looked desperate, and explained how absolutely nothing seemed to point towards a killer. Holmes disagreed, then made a little happy dance and a joyous declaration of how he loved serial killers.

" _Holmes_ ", John chided. "I'm sorry, he's–"

"Don't worry, Doctor Watson, we're used to him", Lestrade waved him off.

"So what's different with this one?" Holmes wanted to know.

"Why do you think something's different?"

"I texted you just to let you know I'm available again and told you not to contact me on that number unless absolutely necessary. Clearly something's changed. What is it?"

"Well, I think you'll like this", the DI said smugly. "There's a note."

"A note? Three identical suicides and a note, oh, _it's Christmas_!" the slave rejoiced.

"Holmes..." John cringed, but no one seemed to care. Holmes wanted to know where the victim was and Lestrade was all too keen to show him upstairs to it.

Holmes's expression turned uneasy. "Is Anderson on forensics?"

"Of course he is."

His uneasiness changed into something of agony. "Anderson doesn't like me."

"Holmes, _no one_ here likes you. What does it matter, it's never stopped you before."

"But I _need_ an assistant", Holmes insisted. "Someone who understands about forensics, a cleanup slave won't do. But not Anderson."

"You don't need one, you just want one", Lestrade sighed. "I'll see what I can do. But I'm not promising anything. Don't pick up a fight with Anderson. Are you coming?"

For the first time since their arrival Holmes turned his full attention to John. "Master?"

"If it's alright with you", he responded to Lestrade, but Holmes didn't wait for them to exchange more words.

"Excellent. Come along, master." The slave strode to the blue and white tape, Lestrade following close behind. It was unsettling to see a slave walk with such confidence, as if he owned the place. Neither men paid attention to John trying to keep up with them.

"Oh. I see the freak is back", he heard the woman guarding the tape comment with distaste as they approached. She was a slim, tall woman with a beautiful take-no-nonsense face and lots of curly, black hair framing her features. If it weren't for the setting, John would have considered saying something flirtatious.

"Always good to see you, Sergeant Donovan", Holmes greeted with a proper bow.

"Why is he here?" she demanded the Detective Inspector, completely ignoring the slave.

"I invited him", Lestrade explained, lifting the tape. Holmes slipped to the other side and kept the tape up for both of the men.

"Well you know what I think of that", she stated, but let them pass.

"We need him", Lestrade reminded her. She didn't reply. Instead, her eyes shot on John.

"Hold it. Who's this?" she asked, pointing her walkie-talkie's antenna at him.

"I-er, I own him", he answered, pointing Holmes with his cane.

"Really?" she questioned. "Did someone trick you into buying him? Did you pay _actual_ money for him?"

For a moment, John was at loss of words. What did she know about his slave? How did Holmes know these people? He tucked the questions away for later and corrected her: "No. InS gave him."

The Sergeant gave him a pitying look. "Poor sod, I hope you can still have him changed", she muttered, then continued to her walkie-talkie: "Lestrade's found the freak, I'm bringing them in."

A bearded man wearing light blue coveralls met them at the door. He didn't look pleased in the slightest at the sight of John's slave.

"Hello, Anderson. Long time no see", Holmes greeted mockingly, with only a slight inclination of his head. John pursed his lips, but didn't say anything. As far as he could tell, Anderson wasn't a slave, but neither him nor Lestrade were bothered by Holmes's lack of respect.

"I don't want the scene contaminated", the man called Anderson sneered at Holmes. "Do you understand? You aren't allowed to touch _anything_."

"Quite clear", Holmes replied with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Is your wife away for long? Did she take the slave with her?"

"Well someone's been gossiping", the forensics officer scoffed. "Was it Sally?"

"No, but she's wearing your deodorant", Holmes replied without batting an eye. "Can I go, _sir_?"

Donovan's jaw dropped and Anderson turned to look at her over his shoulder. They exchanged a quick look before Anderson turned back to Holmes. "Look, whatever you're implying–"

"I'm not implying anything", Holmes assured innocently, walking past him and up the stairs to the front door. "Surely she just was in the area and offered to substitute."

He gave an exaggerated, judging look to Donovan's legs. "And scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees. Doesn't your slave usually do that for you?"

"Well you would know that, wouldn't you?" she sneered under her breath.

John nearly choked on his own tongue at the exchange. Holmes's behaviour was outrageous, and thus technically it meant John's was, too, since he was the owner. Holmes was just his extension, and what Holmes said or did were his responsibility.

"Enough, all of you", Lestrade commanded before John could tell Holmes to apologise and shut up, or before either Anderson or Donovan could add another word. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes. Donovan, return to your post. Holmes, you follow me."

"Hang on", John interrupted. "Do _I_ have any say in this? He's my property, in case you hadn't noticed. And in case _you"_ he added, pointing at Holmes, "had forgotten."

Holmes's face fell as if he only now remembered his position. His entire posture changed from that of full confidence into a submissive one that made him look smaller than he really was, and reluctantly he returned from the doorway to John's side.

"Apologies", he muttered silently, head bowed down. Sherlock could feel Lestrade's eyes on him.

"With all due respect, Doctor", Lestrade started. "Your slave's worked for the Yard in the past. He's been great help. There's been several arrests we couldn't have made without him."

"Yes, well technically _it_ shouldn't even be allowed here", Anderson complained.

"We don't need him", Donovan echoed.

"Shut it, both of you", Lestrade barked. "Doctor Watson", he continued with more calm, "I would really greatly appreciate your slave's opinion of the scene."

"Why?" John questioned despite knowing why. Though he had no idea what exactly they expected Holmes to do for them. Sure his demonstration in the taxi had been impressive, but fairly simple after the explanation. This was a murder scene, not a scratched mobile phone.

"You have your own forensics team here. Why would you need my slave? He's dragged me here _against_ my wishes. I've never given him a permission to even talk to any of you. Let alone to _send you texts_ on _my phone_! He's not a witness, he has absolutely nothing to do with any–"

"Oh for god's sake!" Holmes interrupted loudly. "Four people have been _murdered_ and it's only a matter of time until the fifth victim turns up! I can stop the fifth from happening. It's pure idiocy from your part if you won't let me help them!"

Several jaws dropped and it was suddenly so quiet one could have heard a needle drop in the stunned silence followed by Holmes's outburst. John clenched his teeth in a mixture of humiliation and anger. His left hand, curled in a tight fist, was shaking. His right hand gripped the cane, knuckles gone white. He wasn't a man easily enraged, but it wasn't everyday he was humiliated like this in front of a dozen police officials. No slave should ever speak like that to his owner, and absolutely not in front of other people. Even the people he hadn't been introduced to had heard Holmes and were staring. Several slaves looked at them with such alarmed expressions one would've assumed they were expecting to be beaten themselves.

"Floor, _now_ ", he managed to growl between grit teeth. If Holmes apologised immediately they could leave it at that, but of course he didn't. John could hear a concurrent, shocked gasps of disbelief around him when the slave kept standing tall, his chin held high and eyes fixed at his owner in a silent challenge. John really didn't want to resort in violence, but if he would not take immediate action to discipline his property, this already exceedingly embarrassing situation would turn into a complete and utter mortifying humiliation.

"Floor, Holmes", he ordered again, but this time emphasising his point by hitting Holmes's midriff, the back of his knees and finally his back with the cane. The slave groaned in pain, collapsed on his knees and nearly hit his head to the pavement at the last blow. And still he would not properly obey the order. Instead he held his stomach and glared at John under his unruly black hair.

More shocked gasps followed. Lestrade was openly staring at him, wide-eyed, gulping when Holmes still refused to comply. Sergeant Donovan next to him had paled and covered her mouth with her hand. Anderson's face was a mixture of loath and outrage.

John glared back at the slave. If he were to bend now, he would lose all his credibility in the eyes of everyone at the scene. He used the cane to push between Holmes's shoulder blades and when the slave bowed a little deeper he moved it to push the back of Holmes's neck. Seconds seemed to drag by like hours, but finally there was one last shaky rebellious breath drawn before Holmes lowered his eyes and kowtowed to everyone's relief.

"I apologise, master", he said reluctantly, but loud enough for everyone present to definitely hear it. "Forgive me. I deserve to be disciplined."

"I'm going to flog you for this later", John fumed.

Making his master lose his face was one of the worst things a slave could do. Thirty years back it would have been legal for John to kill Holmes on the spot. Eighty years back it would have been expected of him.

John drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. His left hand was still shaking, so he kept it curled in a fist, willing the tremor to stop.

He cleared his throat. "Alright. Let's see that crime scene. I'll deal with him later. I'm not having him waste any more of your time than he already has."

It was like everyone around them sighed of relief collectively and then returned to do whatever they'd been doing, pretending nothing had happened at all.

"Right... Anderson, keep everyone away, Donovan return to your post", Lestrade repeated. "Doctor Watson, this way, please."

John nodded his acknowledgment and tapped Holmes's arm with the cane. The man stood up instantly, dusting his coat utterly unprepared for his master slapping his face. John grabbed the lapel of his coat and pulled him closer.

"I am not done with you", he hissed at the slave. Holmes stared back at his angry smile. For a moment John feared the slave would defy him again, but Holmes cast down his eyes.

"I'm at your mercy, master", he pledged quietly, before turning away.

"What do we know?" he wanted to know as they followed Lestrade inside. This time, however, Holmes walked behind him, head bowed down a little. Even his voice was softer and much less demanding than it had been outside.

After Holmes had refused to wear proper coveralls and the Detective Inspector had shrugged it off, Lestrade explained the victim was a woman in her late thirties, called Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. The body had been discovered by local kids.

John listened in silence, dreading a little what they'd find. And while he didn't want to admit it, he was a bit excited and curious. He thought of the kids (actual children?) who'd come to this clearly abandoned house and ended up finding a body. Lestrade led them into an empty second floor room. Well, empty apart from a rocking horse in the corner and a woman dressed in a bright pink overcoat lying unmoving on the floor. John stayed by the wall with the Detective Inspector, but Holmes was immediately all business and alert. He took a step forward, arm extended to the room and stopped. For long seconds none of them moved or said a thing until Holmes beelined to the corpse and started slowly circling it.

The DI was completely unfazed by Holmes's extremely unslave-like behaviour. John couldn't help but to wonder. Holmes had been a slave for nearly his entire life, hadn't he? Why were the police treating him like...well, almost like a _person_. His hand tried to unconsciously reach the jacket pocket under the coveralls at least he had had the sense to wear when offered. He didn't want Holmes to see the strange business card, so he kept it with himself. Someone badly wanted his slave, but why? His skill set was certainly impressive, but he was also ill-tempered and a bloody bad slave at most of the time. Why would someone be so interested in buying him so suddenly? If someone wanted him so badly, why hadn't they bought him sooner? There had been plenty of opportunities.

John watched as Holmes crouched down next to the woman. His hands trailed under her coat's collar, he leant closer to sniff, emptied her pockets, examined her hands and jewellery. Was this, whatever he was doing, why someone wanted to own him? Enough to offer nearly anything in exchange. No slave was worth what he'd been offered, surely.

After some impatient prompting from Lestrade, Holmes said he'd share his findings after he could borrow Lestrade's smartphone. He then concluded the same the DI had already told them, but added that she probably worked in the media sector, had come from Cardiff only hours earlier to stay one night in London, and that she had multiple lovers.

"Ask the family slaves about the lovers, they ought to know", he advised. Lestrade immediately questioned him, so irritably, but hastily Holmes explained how he'd reached the conclusion about Cardiff with a little help from the weather maps.

"What about the message on the floor? Anderson reckons she's German."

"Revenge?" Holmes laughed mockingly. "Why would she write an angry message in German while she's dying? She scratched that with her nails while _she was dying_. Have you seen her fingers? It hurt. No, whatever it is, it's important. Probably Rachel. Find out who she is. Again, if the husband doesn't know, ask the slaves in private. Better yet, have another slave talk to them, it's often easier that way."

"Slaves?" Lestrade prompted.

"Successful career, unhappy marriage. Chances are they have at least two slaves. What do you think, master?"

"Of what?" John startled. He had been watching and listening carefully, but was unprepared to be asked for an opinion. His slave smirked and pointed out he was doctor, so obviously the body.

Lestrade, however, objected, protesting that he already had a forensic team and that he couldn't possibly have more people touch the body. But he gave in when Holmes claimed not even the slaves of Anderson's team would agree to work with him. Now that they were just the three of them, Holmes's earlier self-confidence had returned. Had John not known, he would have never assumed the man challenging the DI into a silent staring competition was a slave. He really ought to buy the man collar.

"Excellent", Holmes smiled. "Master?"

John glanced at the woman in pink, then Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had his hands to his face, fingers pressed on his temples. "Go ahead."

Holmes crouched down to the body again, so John lowered himself down as well.

"This is fucking ridiculous", he whispered irritably. "You're a house slave, you're supposed to be cooking my dinner."

"Yes, but this is more fun. So what do you think?"

"Fun? I'd like to know if you'll still consider this fun when I'm done with you."

Holmes smirked. "I reckon this'll be worth it."

"I'm flogging you the moment we're back home", John vowed, but despite himself did exactly what Holmes wanted him to do. He examined the body, noticed the mysterious "rache" on the floor while doing so and explained what undoubtedly Lestrade's team already knew. Asphyxiation, passed out and choked in her own vomit.

Holmes in turn shared everything he knew with Lestrade. John still knelt by body when Holmes started demanding to see the woman's suitcase, which he insisted the woman must have had, despite Lestrade firmly stating there had never been a suitcase on the property. And before John managed to get up, his slave had already dashed out of the room, still going on about a suitcase. Lestrade followed, yelling again that there had never been a suitcase.

Both had disappeared by the time John made it out of the room. He passed the man named Anderson, who stood outside the room, stroking his beard. Anderson shrugged and rolled his eyes, then entered the room with his team. John limped down the stairs as quickly as he could. Neither his slave nor DI Lestrade was anywhere to be seen. In fact, the only person at the grounds floor was a slave, and she had no idea of either's location. But she stayed to help John out of the coveralls.

There were still police officers and cars with their lights flashing everywhere. Not really knowing what to do, John made his way to the only familiar figure he could spot. Sergeant Donovan stood in watch at the same place where he'd first met her.

"Er, sorry, have you seen my slave?"

"Holmes?" She didn't look in the least surprised by the knowledge that a slave had possibly gone missing. "He ran off a while ago. He does that."

"So I've gathered", John sighed. "Do you know if he's coming back?"

The Sergeant shook her head. "I don't think so. Don't worry, he's got GPS."

"Yeah, I know." Though he wondered how she did. He looked around in the unfamiliar neighbourhood. He couldn't even remember the name of the bloody place. "Sorry, where am I?"

She told him they were in Brixton, and advised him to how to get to the main road where he'd have better luck finding a taxi. She lifted the tape for him, and John ducked under it.

"You'd better give him back, you know", she called unexpectedly.

"Why'd you say that?" he questioned, turning back at her.

"You saw him. You saw how he's like", she said with distaste. "He enjoys it. The weirder the crime, the more he likes it. He gets off on it. He _gets off_ on seeing dead, murdered _people_."

John swallowed involuntarily. It was clear from the tone of her voice she meant _real people_. People that excluded slaves.

She shook her head before continuing: "And you know what? One day he'll snap. One day we'll find a body of some poor guy who had the misfortune of owning him."

"You think he'd murder his owner? Why?"

"Because he thinks being clever is enough to make him human. Because he will never accept what he is and submit to it like he should. And that makes him dangerous", she told, entirely serious. "I'd be very careful if I were you, or the body we'll find will be yours after he's killed you in your sleep."

"Donovan!"

Both of them turned to look at the caller. It was Lestrade at the front door. She called back that she'd be there in a second, but before leaving she turned to look at John for one last time. "Get rid of that slave while you still can."

John watched her go and disappear inside. Having no other choice, he started walking towards the road she had pointed him and tried to brush of the things she'd just said. Holmes was difficult, not dangerous.

And yet...he had attacked his owner. It was not a light accusation. Even if the said owner had been the abusive one.

Deep in his thoughts, hand in his pocket touching the card yet again, he didn't notice the black car until it drove past him and pulled to the kerb. It wasn't the same car as yesterday, but it might as well have been. Like the previous one, the windows were tinted and if one was powerful enough to control the CCTV, they might as well have two or more black vehicles.

John straightened his back and gripped the cane, again ready use it as a weapon should need arise. As the door opened, he realised none of the cameras in the area were pointed at them.

"Doctor John Watson", the man stepping out of the car greeted. He was tall, considerably taller than John was, dressed in what was perhaps the most well-tailored piece of clothing he'd ever seen on anyone. In his hand the man held a black umbrella and for a moment he leant on it very much in the same fashion John often leant on his cane. The man's face wore a pleasant smile, but despite of it something about him was exceedingly off-putting.

"Yes, that's me", John blinked in surprise. He'd been half expecting to see the same woman or some shady, sinister figure, not a civilised looking man. He was about to offer his hand for shaking when he noticed the large slave collar the man was wearing and quickly pulled his hand back. The slave smartly paid no attention to this, as though John hadn't just been about to make a huge, embarrassing mistake.

"You recently acquired a slave" the man stated instead, stepping closer and looking down to him. John would have been offended hadn't it dawned to him that with such an enormous collar the man probably wasn't even able to bow down his head very much. The slave noticed him staring the collar and tilted his head so that the metal around his throat was jabbing his chin while he spoke: "Have you found him satisfactory?"

John had to drag his eyes away from the heavy looking dark, polished metal collar that disappeared under the white shirt's collar and look at the slave in the eyes instead. "How...do you know that?"

A sly smile unlike anything John had ever seen on a slave appeared on his face and the man swung the umbrella twice. "It's my business to know."

"You're a slave."

"Indeed I am."

"Well, excuse me, but you really don't look or act like a slave. At all."

"Which is precisely why I wear such an exaggerated collar", the man patiently explained, frowning slightly as he spoke. He glanced meaningfully at John's hand. "To avoid someone losing their face by making an embarrassing mistake. My mistress would be most displeased if that were to ever happen again..."

He smiled. "Well, you don't need to know about that."

John glanced at the black car behind him, not quite sure of what to think of it. "Right…"

"It belongs to my owner", the slave said. "I've asked to be able to meet you, Dr Watson. I have my mistress's permission."

"You know my name", he stated, stepping away from the slave despite himself. The man made no move to get closer again.

"Of course. I told you: it's my business to know."

"Why do you want to know about my slave?" John questioned. The woman had told him to sleep over it. He had, but he'd understood it was him who was expected to make contact. Surely they wouldn't try bothering him again this soon? Had she or her enigmatic employer changed their mind? John certainly hadn't changed his mind, he was not selling his slave and he hadn't contacted the mysterious M, whoever that was.

"Let's just say he holds some interest to me."

"And to your owner, I suppose?"

"Oh no, my mistress is not interested in him", the strange slave assured, examining the tip of his umbrella. "This is purely between myself and him."

He pointed the umbrella at John. "And you of course, master Watson, should you want to be involved. He is your property, after all. All I am asking is that you let me meet him."

John wasn't so easily convinced, nor would this slave gain anything by flattery. John wasn't his master.

"Who are you, exactly? How do you know my slave?"

"We share some common history."

"Oh…" He remembered Holmes's explanation about the e-mails. Perhaps this slave had nothing to do with the earlier meeting after all.

"So you're friends?" he asked, feeling slightly relieved. "Previous shared owner?"

The umbrella man chuckled, sounding far too amused for John's liking. "No, nothing like that, I assure you. I don't think he would ever choose to use the word "friend"."

"What would he use, then?"

"An enemy. Perhaps even "archenemy"", the slave mused before tilting his head sideways and adopting a more serious look. "Tad dramatic, don't you agree, master Watson?"

"And you aren't?" John muttered before repeating: "Archenemy? That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all day. Besides, if that's true, why would Holmes want to meet you? Why do you want to meet him, anyway?"

The man smiled briefly before turning completely serious. "Because a short while ago I was under the impression that he was dead."

"Because of Florida?" John asked, but the slave had no chance to reply as at the same moment the car's door opened again and a woman stepped outside. Still not the one from before. She had long, dark brown hair, beautiful tanned skin, brown eyes, full lips... She was absolutely stunning in a word.

"Mycroft", she called, extending her hand.

The slave –Mycroft, his name appeared to be, was at her side instantly, handing her a Black Berry that apparently had been kept in his inner chest pocket. She started typing, clutching the phone with her well manicured fingers.

"Done, are we?" she asked, not looking away from her mobile.

"Yes, mistress. Quite done for now."

"Hang on a second", John exclaimed, still having absolutely no idea of what their exchange had been about. The woman met his eyes briefly and handed the phone back to her slave.

"I…" John had forgotten what he'd been about to say, momentarily lost in her eyes. Maybe if he introduced himself..? One never knew, he might get lucky. She already had some interest towards his slave, or at least her slave had. A convenient excuse. A bit like using a dog to ask a girl out, actually.

"John Watson", he finally said, stepping closer and extending his hand. She looked at him, face passive apart from a tiniest smirk at the corner of her mouth.

"Yes, I know." She didn't take the offered handshake and John let his hand drop awkwardly.

"Oh. Well, I don't think I caught _your_ name yet."

"Anthea", she stated carefully with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Anthea? That's an unusual name. Very beautiful."

She smirked amusedly. "It's not my real name."

"Er, sorry?"

But the not-Anthea turned around without another word, beckoning Mycroft to follow her back into the car.

"I'm glad to have met you, master Watson. Goodbye."

The slave smiled politely, bowed at John from the waist and disappeared into the black vehicle that immediately steered away. The odd encounter hadn't taken even five minutes, and he could still see the lights of the police cars. Whoever they had been, they were gone now. John was left with yet more questions about the mysterious inquiries after his slave, and zero answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the nice comments and interest towards this fic. I hope you liked this chapter as well. How do you feel about Mycroft? Please leave a comment if you have time. That would be nice. ♥


	7. Chapter 7

John wasn't surprised in the least to return to an empty flat. Wherever Holmes had gone, it wasn't home, but this time he didn't bother checking the GPS. He was certain Holmes would return eventually. And when he would, John would have him beg for forgiveness.

As he waited, John dug out Holmes's file and  _The Handbook of a New Slave Owner_. He sat down with them, a cup of coffee and toast. To his annoyance he'd realised the take-away Chinese he'd bought earlier had gone lost somewhere along the way. He probably left it in the previous taxi while being busy following Holmes.

He skimmed through the Handbook not quite knowing what he was looking for. There was a long chapter dedicated to emancipation, especially to "Ask yourself if your slave will truly benefit from emancipation". John flipped the pages towards the beginning and started from the introduction.

_A house slave is a family member and should be treated as such. Similarly to a pet, a slave stays with you for years and is your responsibility. But unlike a pet, a slave often looks the same as any free citizen. It can therefor be harder to remember that a slave is not a human being and should not be treated as one. A slave does not think the same as its owner does. Treating it like a free being is very confusing for the slave, and potentially harmful. Slave's natural place is below you. Its duty is to serve you. It does not ask "what do I want?" It asks "what does my owner want?" Your existence gives your slave a purpose in life._

John huffed. His Holmes certainly didn't seem to think so. But he agreed that a slave's way of thinking rarely was like that of a free person such as himself. A slave's worries were much more simple in nature. Holmes, however, seemed to have retained a troubling amount of self-centred thinking for someone being enslaved for so long. Perhaps that was the source of his ill temper. He flipped back to a section he'd noticed about behavioural problems.

_Rebelliousness is natural for a young slave. An adolescent slave will often test its owner by talking back, acting disrespectful or even running away. As an owner you must be both patient and stringent. Your slave is testing its limits and finding its place. You as an owner must help guide your slave to its natural place._

_It should be noted that most young runaway slaves return on their own within a few hours or days. A runaway should be disciplined, but it's also important to show it you care and are willing to forgive your slave's betrayal in exchange for good behaviour. You must show it that it will be happier serving you than pursuing things that are unnatural for it._

_If your slave has been recently enslaved, it is natural for it to go through a rebellious or melancholy phase. This is where you as an owner must step in to support it. Many slaves enslaved in adulthood will feel their life is over. You must show them that this is the beginning of a happy, meaningful life._

Well, that wasn't very helpful either. He read a bit further about dealing with an adult slave with behavioural problems, but he learnt nothing new. It said essentially the same Holmes's personal file had said. An adult slave in general understood what it did wrong, so it should just be disciplined harder and harder until the slave would bend to its master's will. Didn't seem to have worked with Holmes so far.

He flipped the pages again and paused to read a paragraph about bedding a slave:  _Sex with a slave works best when both of you enjoy it. When your slave trusts you fully as it should, there should be no major problems. The slave might find the first few times awkward and embarrassing, but you should show it there is no need for either feeling. With firm guidance and practise the slave will relax. Your enjoyment will bring joy to your slave, and it should always be putting your pleasure ahead of its own. Such intimacy is a privilege to it._

John closed the the Handbook and placed in on the table. He sipped his coffee with a sigh. Not for the first time since his return to England John thought back to the slaves they'd had at their disposal in the army, especially to one of them. Before the army he had always prided himself for the fact that he didn't need to resort to slaves for company, but he had to admit it had been very nice and convenient to have slaves around who willingly fulfilled any request you might have had. Truth to be told, sex with those slaves had been the best he'd ever had. And god he missed it.

There was Holmes of course... It was fair within his rights bed him if he so wanted. Holmes had even assumed he would. Rightly so, John supposed. But he had been, at the time, still far too appalled by the idea because he'd been expecting a female. Not that he had never been with male slave, but a female was always the first choice. The only choice when it came to free people. He wouldn't want a relationship with a man.

The doorbell interrupted his musings. The slave had returned. But before John could even begin scolding him, a pink suitcase was shoved into his arms.

"What the–"

"Her case," Holmes told, removing his coat and scarf. "Wasn't very hard to find."

"Why did you bring it here?"

"I need to see what's inside."

Holmes took the case from John and sat down on the floor with it. He unzipped it and began quickly going through the luggage. John was, once again, momentarily at loss of words with his slave's behaviour. The man growled in irritation, jumped up and paced the room for several seconds before throwing himself on to the bed.

" _What_  are you doing?" John asked, trying hard to keep his tone neutral.

"I need to think."

"There's something I'd certainly _like_  you to think."

But before he could go on further, the slave was up on his feet again and made a beeline to the pile of his possessions that still had no better place than the floor.

"John, look at the case," Holmes prompted.

"What about it?" he asked irritably, but despite himself crouched down to have a closer look.

"Tell me what's missing."

John sighed, but nevertheless lifted a paperback book and couple of clothes to see what Holmes might have been talking about. From the sound of it, Holmes was rustling papers.

"How would I know what's missing if it's missing?" John wanted to know, his patience wearing thinner and thinner by minute.

"Her phone, of course!" Holmes cried. "Where is it?"

"I don't know. I don't really care at the moment." He stood up, just in time to see Holmes stick something on his arm. This time he didn't even bother asking. He wrenched the man up violently by seizing his arm.

"Are these—?"

"Nicotine patches. Yes. They help me think," Holmes snapped defensively and pulled his arm free, challenging his master's authority with his act and a defiant look.

"You've got to be kidding me," John groaned, bringing a hand to his face. He felt like exploding any second now, but Holmes remained blissfully ignorant.

"Well, it's near impossible for a slave to–"

"Three patches?!"

"It's a three patch–"

"Take them off _right now_."

"But–"

" _Now_. I am not joking. I am _this_ ," he emphasised by almost making his index finger and thumb touch, "close to beating you until you are unconscious, so _do not_  tempt me."

Holmes stared at him mouth half opened. John couldn't tell if he was shocked or outraged, but after a second it seemed to click in his head that he was still in fact a slave and that John was his master. He peeled off the nicotine patches reluctantly.

"Throw them away. All of them if you have more."

With even greater reluctancy Holmes pulled out a full package of them and marched to the kitchen to toss it all in the bin.

"Happy now, _master_?"

"No. No, I'm not. Where did you get them? Did you steal them? Did you steal my money and buy them?"

"No! Of course I didn't. I would _never_  steal from my master," Sherlock exclaimed. He was outright lying of course. He had stolen money from his owners multiple times. Only small, unnoticeable sums over a long period of time, mostly. He'd taken more than just his owner's cash when paying for his ride to Norway. But he had not stolen the nicotine patches. And he had not stolen cash from John. Yet.

"Then where did they come from?"

"I know people," Holmes offered a vague explanation. "What does it matter, we are solving a murder! More people than Jennifer Wilson and the others will die unless we catch the killer."

"We? You mean you. You think _you_  can catch the killer."

"I can if you let me!"

"You're nothing more than a slave!" John yelled, shoving at the slave violently, but Holmes didn't lose his footing. "Playing a detective because you happen to know a police officer doesn't change that!"

" _Consulting_  detective."

"What?"

"I'm a consulting detective, not a detective."

"You are whatever _I say_  you are, and you are neither. What you did today was _outrageous_. You defied me in front of a dozen police officials. You spoke against me. I have never been so embarrassed in my life," John shouted. "You are my property, and you _humiliated_  me."

"Only because you were being an idiot and thought it hurt your pride to let me help them," Holmes argued. "And nine people isn't a dozen."

John slapped the slave's face. "I don't care! How dare you defy me? I have been  _nothing_  but kind to you" he roared at the slave's face.

"Most kind," Holmes agreed, but his remark went unacknowledged.

"And this is how you repay me? By publicly humiliating me?"

Holmes stood stoically, didn't even flinch when John's hand nearly touched his face. "I'm sorry, master. I never meant to humiliate you."

"But you did. I didn't ask for your opinion and you'd do well to keep your mouth shut unless told otherwise. You are not a free man, so get on your knees _right now_  and act like your kind."

Holmes obeyed albeit unwillingly. "This is waste of time."

"No it's not. Go on, show some remorse."

"Apologies," the slave muttered and bowed his head.

"It's about time someone reminds you of what you are. Answer me. Who are you?"

But Holmes was smart, of course he was. Smart enough to give the right answer this time and not risk getting smacked across the face again just yet.

"Nobody. Your question is fallacious. You ask "who," yet you're talking to an object. You cannot label an object "who"."

"Better. What are you then?"

"A slave," he replied simply, clenching his fists to prevent John from seeing how they were shaking. John was furious at him, but he was also angry at his master. Angry and humiliated.

"I want a full sentence."

"I–" Holmes cleared his throat in an attempt to make himself sound less hostile, and started again: "I. Am. A slave."

"And what are slaves?"

"Items. Or objects, if you prefer. Property."

"Good. And what is the purpose of a slave?"

"To serve."

"So your..." John prompted.

"My purpose is to serve," Sherlock spat out the words. His fists were shaking now, it was no use. If he hadn't been a slave for so long, he would have marched out of the room and slammed the door behind him, but years of feigning submission and the knowledge of consequences kept him kneeling on the floor.

"I don't like the tone of your voice."

Holmes took a deep breath and breathed out slowly before repeating in a much calmer tone: "My purpose is to serve."

"And you'd do well to remember that," John said, lifting up the slave's chin. "Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?" The master leant closer.

The slave's eyes did not avert. "Yes, I understand."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I understand." Holmes paused for half a second before forcing the word out of his mouth: "Master."

John let go and Holmes's gaze sunk back to the floor. He clapped his hands slowly in a mocking applause. "Well done. Just one more thing."

Sherlock risked a look at him, but bowed his head back down immediately.  _No_  was his immediate response. No. He knew what John wanted.

They were just words, he reminded himself. He should prefer this to beating.

"The slave oath. I want to hear you recite the slave oath."

Sherlock stayed stubbornly silent. If there was anything he loathed, it was the slave oath. He'd almost rather have the beating than have to speak the oath.

"That's an order, Holmes," John commanded, gripping a fistful of black curls. Holmes hissed in pain as his master twisted the hair around his fingers. "Do it _now._ "

"Yes, yes, alright!" He gulped down the lump in his throat after John let go. The sudden sharp pain watered his eyes.

"I'm 99OR-79/3J3A," Holmes slowly began with the individual part of the so called "oath". The words came out in a forced monotone, spoken between gritted teeth. There were many versions of the oath, but despite small differences, they were all essentially the same.

"I am a slave and legal property of my master. My entire being belongs to my master, whom I love and fear and respect, for he is my world and his wish is my command. I was born to serve and I strive to please."

At this point is was common to begin to address one’s master directly. John waited whether Holmes would do that, or continue disrespecting him and distancing himself by still speaking of his master as a third person. Holmes drew a breath and his eyes moved to look at him as it was customary when starting to speak the oath directly to one's owner. His lips moved exaggeratedly as he forced himself to continue and the words to come out clear and as calm as he could manage.

"My body, my soul, my abilities and my thoughts, all of me belongs to you and is yours to use as you please. I give myself willingly and deserve nothing in return. I respect you, I obey you, I love you. I am grateful, for you give my life a purpose. I'm yours, and your word is my law," he finished and bowed down to the floor. He rather bowed than kissed John's hands or worse, his feet. His jaw hurt. He hadn't even realised how hard he'd been biting down.

 _Just words_ , he needed to remind himself. Words he'd recited hundreds of times during his childhood, words fabricated to make the slaves obedient. Just a bunch of lines he'd been made to remember by heart in hopes that one day he would say them genuinely. Made to repeat until he'd believe them.

"Good. You can stand up now," John said after a moment of dragging silence. "But I'm not done with you yet, not even nearly. We'll come back to that later."

Sherlock stood up, still angry, still humiliated, but he tried to push the feelings aside and stomped to the bed. No one would care for his feelings, and he had far more important and interesting things to mull over. There was still a serial killer at loose. So he sat down on the edge of the bed, steepled his fingers before his face and ignored John the best he could.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but the next time Sherlock looked around, John had squatted down and was going through the late Jennifer Wilson's belongings.

"I'm going to send a text," he announced.

John looked up at him. "Why?"

"Just let me, _please_."

John gave him a sharp, warning look. Sherlock scowled at him. He'd even said "please"!

"Look, I'm trying to catch a serial killer here and a little faith in it would be appreciated. So if you could just _put aside_  my status for _one night_!"

He drew a breath and continued a little more respectfully: "Punish me when this is over, but until then, _please_ , let me do this, and we might catch this killer _tonight_."

Sherlock hesitated a second before kneeling back on the floor. If not for his sake, surely his master would care about others. "Please. Let me help them. No one else needs to die."

They stared at each other for a while in silence. John was the first to look away and break the tension. He wanted nothing more than to unleash it and anger he was feeling, but this wasn't about him, was it? Human lives were at stake.

"Fine," the master sighed and took his phone. "Here. What do I do?"

"Thank you," Holmes breathed out. He looked at the offered phone suspiciously, but took it. "There's an address tag on the case. Read out the phone number for me."

John did as requested and Holmes typed it down.

"Why are you sending her a text? She's dead."

"Well the phone isn't here and it wasn't with the body. It has to be somewhere."

"She might have just lost it. Or maybe she left it at home. Maybe she doesn't even have a phone."

Holmes looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Have you ever met a free person who wouldn't have a mobile phone in today's world? Whose number would she have on the luggage tag if not her own?"

"Fair point," John admitted. "Still, maybe she forgot it."

"With the lovers? Please," he scoffed. "She wouldn't just leave it lying around. She'd never be so careless. No."

"So you're hoping someone replies?" John wanted to know, pointing at the phone Holmes had beside his thigh on the bed.

"Not necessarily. I just want to scare him."

"Him?"

Holmes shrugged. "Statistically more likely the killer is a man."

"Wait. So you think...the murderer has her phone? Why?"

"Because Ms Wilson was smart. I don't think she lost or forgot her phone. I think she left it with the murderer on purpose."

"So that someone could find it."

"Precisely."

"That’s brilliant. Quite brilliant," John marvelled. As soon as the words left his mouth, the phone vibrated and the ring tone started playing. He looked at Holmes. The slave picked the phone on the bed, smirked, but did not answer it.

"That's...not my phone," John pointed out slowly.

"No, it's Lestrade's phone."

"What?" John barked, the previous appreciation towards his slave forgotten instantly. "You  _stole_  his phone?" He didn't even want to think of the consequences.

"No, I'm just borrowing it." Holmes jumped up from his seat. "Come on, John, we need to go."

"Where? Does Lestrade know you have his phone?"

The slave was already putting on a coat. "He should, he's the one who gave it to me."

"I don't think he meant for you to keep it."

"Then he should have said so!" Holmes exclaimed, holding John's jacket for him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

" _We_  are going, master. I need you get me on the Tube at least."

"And where exactly do you want to go?" he asked, snatching his jacket from the slave's hands.

"Northumberland Street," Holmes replied. He opened the door and was on his way while John still pulled on the jacket.

"I know a good restaurant there. Hopefully the murderer shows up. Come on, John," he called excitedly. "Might be dangerous!"

John glanced at the desk drawer and thought of his pistol. But Holmes was already out of the door, so he took his cane and followed as quickly as his limp allowed.

"Shows up?" he questioned, closing the door behind him.

"I texted Mrs Wilson's phone that I want to meet there. If someone randomly found the phone, they'd either ignore it or might try reply to it. But if the murderer reads it, he'll panic. It's only been a few hours since he killed."

"And you think he'll just show up?"

"He will. He thinks himself clever. He's a serial killer, he's craving for attention."

John sighed, but followed the man outside and down the street in silence for a while. His limp slowed him down and made it hard for him to keep up with Holmes who constantly found himself several paces ahead, stopped to wait or skipped back to his master restlessly.

"How did you even get back so quickly?" John asked. Surely the man hadn't walked all the way back with the suitcase.

"With a taxi."

John stopped in his tracks. "What? How? You're a slave, you  _can't_  ride a cab on your own! Did you  _lie_  you were a citizen?"

"I didn't lie, I just didn't point out I am a slave," Holmes replied as if it should've been clear. "And if they assumed I'm not...well, it's not really my problem, is it?"

"I could've got a hundred pound fine for that," John exclaimed, slapping the side of Holmes's head. The slave brushed the spot annoyedly with his gloved hand.

"A hundred and twenty at least," Holmes corrected. "Relax, nothing happened. And if it ever does, I'm not going to stop you from punishing me. I'll even work to get your money back if you want me to."

"Of course you'd work to pay for it!" John declared. "What about the taxi? How did you pay for it?"

"With your card."

"My card?"

Holmes produced the said item from his pocket and handed it back to John. "I took it from you after the scene you made, just in case. Turns out I needed it."

" _I_ made? You disobeyed and disrespected me!"

"And you were about to sabotage the whole thing. Everyone was aware of my position. You didn't need to make scene of it," Holmes argued. "Punish me later. We haven't got time for that now."

"But... My card. How did you–?"

"Your PIN?" Holmes let out an unimpressed huff. "I've seen you type it several times by now."

" _You_  are paying for that taxi ride. One way or another."

"I'll do whatever you order. But right now we have a serial killer to catch."

John was glad they were forced to head for separate cars from the platform. It gave him some time to gather his thoughts in peace. The only slaves allowed on regular cars were those acting as nannies or some other kind of caretakers. Once they were reunited again, Holmes led his master quickly through the streets to a cozy little Italian restaurant. The waiter seemed familiar with Holmes and directed them at a reserved window table.

"I called in advance," Holmes explained when John asked about it. "I need a clear view to the street. Don't worry, it didn't cost me anything. The man who keeps this place likes me."

John raised his eyebrows sceptically at the claim that someone would like him, but, speak of the devil, the said man arrived to their table, arms spread wide in a friendly gesture. "Holmes! My favourite slave."

"Hello, Angelo," Holmes greeted with a slight bow, but didn't turn towards the man. His eyes were locked at the street outside. Angelo slammed his hands on the slave's shoulders and looked at John. "You're new."

"Er, yeah. Got him about a week ago."

"And a fine slave you got," Angelo mused, fingers digging into Holmes's shoulders. The slave shifted uneasily, but didn't try to pull away.

"I helped Angelo get off a murder charge a few years ago," he explained instead. He finally got his eyes off the window for a moment to tilt his head to look at Angelo from the corner of his eye. "Master Watson is my tenth owner."

"Tenth? Last time we met it was seventh."

"Much happens in four years."

"Sorry, murder charge?"

"He was actually house breaking elsewhere," Holmes explained. "Got a little prison time out of it."

Angelo patted the slave's cheek and ruffled his hair. "Don't your owners feed you at all? You're a sack of bones and your mouth goes on endlessly because it has nothing to chew. Anything on the menu, free for you and your master."

Angelo left, and although Holmes initially didn't want to order anything, claiming he didn't eat while on a case, John had him eat a portion of pasta of his own. Holmes paid little attention to the food and kept a keen eye on the other side of the street behind the window.

John had already finished and mostly given up on trying to prompt his slave to eat more when Holmes's eyes lit up and he straightened his back in alert.

"Oh... Oh! Yes, clever!"

"What is? Is he here?"

" _Don't_  turn around," Holmes stopped him quickly. "We don't want him to notice."

"So he  _is_  here?"

Holmes smirked. "I think so."

"There've been people passing by all night. How do you know it's him?"

"Because I know what he is."

"Enlighten me."

Holmes's gaze moved from the window to his master. "Consider what we know. Every victim disappeared from a crowded place, in the middle of people. No one noticed, no one reported anything suspicious. The bodies were found nowhere near the place of disappearance, and none of them had any reason to be in those places. They had to be driven there to get there so quickly, yet no one saw a weird car. So what is it?"

John thought of it, trying to consider the slave's words, but quickly gave up with a shrug. "I don't know. A ghost?"

Holmes smirked amusedly. "In a sense. The car and the murderer are practically invisible."

John frowned, itching to turn around. "I don't follow."

"Take a look. Tell me what you see."

John turned. His eyes scanned the street, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. "People. Cars. A motorcycle, couple of bicycles. A cab."

"And there you have it," Holmes declared in a low voice. "The London cab. A perfect murder weapon."

"He's a taxi driver," John marvelled, turning back to the table. It sounded possible, it made sense. No one would think it strange if they saw someone step in a taxi. No one thought it dangerous to step in a taxi. And out of all the people only this slave in front of him had been able to see the obvious. "That's amazing."

"He's been there for two minutes now. It's him, I'm sure of it," Holmes murmured. He turned around, beckoning the waiter. "White wine, quickly! Get Angelo."

"What now?" John asked as the waiter hurriedly fulfilled the request.

"I'll catch a serial killer," Holmes replied. He accepted the wine and threw it all over his face as his master watched in confusion. The slave dried his face just as Angelo returned to their table. Holmes smirked. "Headless nun."

* * *

Sherlock tripped to his own feet when Angelo threw him out of the door and onto the street. It didn't matter, it went well with the play. He took a staggering step towards the road. Angelo cursed in Italian and yelled at him to never come back. He tripped again on the curb, purposefully this time and barely missed being hit by a car. He didn't care. He was on the hunt and, god, it felt  _so good_.

He crossed the street and headed for the side road where the black vehicle awaited. He drummed the cab's back window with his palms before lowering to speak to the driver through the open front window.

"Two-two-one Baker Street," he mumbled, having made sure his coat sleeves properly covered his wrists.

"Sorry mate, I'm off duty."

"Oh, come  _on_! It's Baker Street. Two-two-one Baker Street," he repeated persistently, leaning closer to the window to see inside the car and take a good look at the driver. "It's not far."

" I don't do drunks. Go away."

"It's just Baker Street," he tried one last time before turning away. He'd seen enough. Jeff Hope, as the label identified him, was his man. There was a pink phone in the car.

Pretending to stumble against the cab Sherlock took Lestrade's phone and dialled the number from memory. The phone in the car started ringing and it took only a few moments for the cabbie to take the call.

He couldn't conceal his smirk nor the smugness of his voice. "How did you get them take the poison?"

"What? Who's this?"

Sherlock straightened his back, abandoning the drunk act as he turned back to the window. He disconnected the call. "How do you make them take the poison?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jeff Hope said, opening the door. Sherlock backed away as the man stepped outside.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Sherlock countered, giving a meaningful glance at the pink mobile in the cabbie's left hand.

"This? I just found it. Is it yours?" The cabbie offered the phone to him.

Sherlock reached out his hand and the cabbie stepped closer, wrenching his arm and pushing him against the wall.

"Easy now, Mr Holmes," Hope spoke in his ear. " We're going for a little ride, you and I."

Sherlock's legs nearly gave out, the street around them spun and the road under his feet didn't feel quite stable. Lifting his arm was a near impossibility and his fingers no longer had strength to hold onto Lestrade's phone. A needle. It stuck through the coat near his armpit.

_Oh no._

He tried to step away, to escape, but the cabbie's arms were around him, guiding him into the car. He tried to shout for help, but only incoherent sounds made their way out of his mouth. His tongue felt like it didn't belong in his mouth at all.

"He's fine, he's just had a few," the cabbie assured a bystander and shoved Sherlock onto the taxi's floor.

"John," he managed to call, but it went unheard as the door closed and shut him in. The last coherent though he had before the lost his consciousness was that the car was moving and  _this is it. This time I'm definitely going to die._

* * *

"Something's wrong," John muttered. "That's not supposed to happen."

"He's just acting, he knows what he's doing."

"That can't be part of the plan." John made a beeline to his coat.

"No, no, it's all part of the plan," Angelo assured. "Holmes  _always_  has a plan."

"Plan or not, I'm not allowing this!"

He sprinted to the street, but the cab was already taking off. He tried running after it, but stopped when he realised there was no way for him to catch it. He took his phone, opened a new text and quickly typed down the cab number while he still remembered it. He walked back to the spot where the car had been parked less than a minute ago. There had to be  _something_  he could do, other than to try to convince someone a cabbie had just stolen his slave. He'd need to call the police, he needed to find out who was driving the taxi. And he needed paper to write down the cab number before he could make that call.

Frustrated he started to make his way back to the restaurant when he stepped on something. He looked down and saw a phone. Not just any phone. Detective Inspector Lestrade's phone, the one Holmes had been using. He pocketed the device and ran back to the street to hail himself a taxi as well. Holmes was chipped, he only needed to get online, purchase the damn tracking device service and he'd have an instant access on Holmes's real time location.

He practically threw himself into the car and told the driver for now to go to the general direction the other car had gone. It took him a moment to figure out how to save the text with the cab number before he could start the agonisingly slow task of logging in and purchasing the full GPS package. The phone's internet was slow and sluggish.

While the pages loaded he examined Detective Inspector's phone. There was a crack on the screen, but it appeared to be in working order. It took him a moment to locate the address book, but he found what he was looking for: Donovan, Sally.

She answered after four rings.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

"Yes, yes I am," a bewildered female voice confirmed. "And who are you? Why are you calling from Detective Inspector Lestrade's number?"

"John Watson, we met earlier tonight. Owner of Holmes."

"Oh, you! Did you find him?"

"I did, but I've sort of lost him again."

Sally's hum was unimpressed. "You didn't tell me why you have Lestrade's phone."

"Holmes took it, sorry. Well, Detective Inspector sort of gave it to him, but I don't think he meant for Holmes to keep it. Is there any way you could pass me to him? It's about the pink lady."

"I'm already on my way," she told. Within a minute he was passed to the Detective Inspector. He explained the situation briefly, told him the cab number and agreed to give his username and password for the police to check on Holmes's location with the GPS tracker. By now he had the location as well and Holmes was still moving. John tried his best to both have a conversation with Lestrade and discreetly instruct the driver the right direction.

He was assured the police would handle this, there was nothing else for John to do but wait. But John of course had other plans. No one would just snatch his property and get away with it. Especially when he still wanted to give Holmes the beating of a lifetime.

The little blue dot on the map was still on a road and kept moving. He told the driver to follow, hoping he wouldn't catch up too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second last chapter dealing with A Study Pink. Hope you enjoyed. Happy New Year, fellow slavelockians! (Is that even a word? But I'm assuming you must like slavelock at least a little since you're here.)
> 
> ~~It's interesting how other people think John too unkind whereas some wish to see him do more. What's your stand? Should I maybe tag dark!John? I wouldn't personally call him dark, since it's not like he enjoys hurting anyone, it's more about him being accustomed the casual violence against slaves. And I think if the roles were reversed, people wouldn't think the behaviour too much. If you look at A Study in Pink alone, John is an angry man. He's not violent, but he snaps at Mrs Hudson for instance. In a world where violence against certain group of people is normal however, he wouldn't necessarily think twice about slapping someone of the said group when annoyed...~~
> 
> EDIT: people seem to agree with me. I'm glad about that. But I added a little "warning" at the notes of the first chapter. Feel free to suggest tags, too, if you think something should be tagged.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was twelve when it truly hit him how insignificant his life was in the eyes of the free people. How little it was worth, how easily he could be replaced, and how cruel and indifferent people could be towards the likes of him.

Since he had been bought, Sherlock had been his mistress's investment. Even so, he did sometimes help at the building sites. His master built roofs and installed insulation for living. Had his own small business with a few paid workers and a team of slaves. Sherlock wasn't exactly familiar with them, but he'd known them well enough to know them by names.

He couldn't recall his name anymore. Mike or Mickey or something like that. In his forties, though at the time it had sounded old. Dying of cancer because nothing would be done to save his life.

"Cancer's not like a broken leg," he'd been told. "I've heard the free people get the treatment for free, but treating a slave is expensive. It's cheaper and easier to get a new one."

"He'll be put down when he can't work anymore if the masters have mercy."

It didn't sound like mercy to Sherlock, but perhaps it was kinder than the alternative of being donated for medical research. He died only little after a week. Killed himself with household chemicals. It wasn't the suicide that bothered Sherlock the most, but how the free people seemed annoyed that he had dared to end his life while he would've still been useful to them. The sheer injustice of it all filled him with resigned anger, sorrow and fear.

Not a week had gone by when he was already replaced and Sherlock looked at the replacement, thinking how easily it had been done. How easily it could happen to him. Mistress complained he didn't take his tutoring seriously enough. She said he was lazy and waste of money. That maybe it would be better to sell him while he was still young and worth the amount they'd paid for him.

And while he didn't want to be a slave, he made a decision then. He wasn't waste of money. He would not be thrown away. He would not be replaced.

* * *

The car was still moving when Sherlock came to. It took a moment for his groggy mind to piece together all the evidence around him and the memories from the past few hours. For a terrifying second he had thought he was back at The Oyster House.

He moaned and dragged himself on the seat. The flashing lights of the cars passing by made him feel nauseous and he was reminded of The Oyster House again. Of the flashing lights, loud music and people dancing. Of hands on his body, the smell of alcohol in their breaths and the despair at the face of it all.

He wiped his face both to wake himself up and to put aside the memories. Irrelevant. Not now.

How long had he been unconscious? Where was he? He tried to look out of the window and figure out, but his eyes couldn't focus on anything moving.

"Now that's just impressive," someone commented. Sherlock turned to look at the direction of the speaker. The cab driver, Jeff Hope, was looking at him through the mirror. "I figured you'd stay unconscious a little longer."

"I've had some practice," Sherlock slurred, but Jeff Hope could hardly make the meaning. His tongue still wouldn't work properly. He reached for the door, but it didn't open. Probably wouldn't, even if he could get a firm grip.

"I'm not stupid, Mr Holmes. You're not getting off this car alone. Don't worry, you've only been out for about ten minutes."

Sherlock slumped back on the seat, discreetly trying his pockets at the same time. The phone was gone. Damn it, he must have dropped it. But his gloves were there.

"You know my name?" he questioned instead, slowly, exaggeratedly to make the words as clear as possible.

"Of course, Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you."

"Warned by whom?" he asked as coolly as he could, but in reality it made his blood run cold to hear someone aside from the select few to call him by his birth name. The name was on his website, but there were no photos. The cabbie shouldn't have been able to recognise him. The only advantage he seemed to currently have was that the man did not appear to know he was a slave. He pulled the coat sleeve further down to protect the stigma on his wrist.

"Just someone who's noticed you."

"Who would notice me?" It was both the curse and the blessing of being a slave. No one cared what he saw or heard, but neither did they want to listen to him.

The cabbie's eyes met his through the mirror. "You've got yourself a fan."

"I don't think so." His speech was getting better, but his limbs still felt numb and he had trouble focusing his eyes. Moving his head sent everything spinning. Still, he'd managed to make a few details. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere nice and quiet."

"So that you can kill me, too?"

The cabbie laughed dryly. "I'm not going to kill you, Mr Holmes!"

"Like you didn't kill those four people before me?"

The cabbie didn't reply, just smirked at him through the mirror. He wouldn't answer more questions for the rest of the drive, so instead of pressing it Sherlock leant back on his seat, hoping for his head to clear while getting himself on the map. After ten more minutes of driving the cab pulled to the front of two nearly identical buildings. His driver turned off the engine, got up and came to open the passenger door.

"Where are we?" he asked without getting up.

"You boast you know each street of London. You tell me."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," Sherlock told. The cabbie looked pleased with his answer, but truth to be told, he had been quite lost until the very last minutes. "Why here?"

Jeff Hope shrugged. "It's open and the cleaners are about to leave. In my profession you get to know these things."

"And you think I'll just follow you?" he asked, horribly self-conscious of his left wrist. The stigma burnt his skin under the sleeve and he had to fight the urge to scratch it. The cabbie pulled out a pistol and aimed it at his head.

Memories flashed before his eyes.

A man kneeling on the ground, barrel of a gun aimed at his head.

" _No, no, no, please, master, please! I swear I can work, I swear I can work!"_

Blood and brains all over the burning hot tarmac. Scrub, scrub, scrub. The smell makes him nauseous. It's still with him when he tries to sleep. It's under his nails.

Sherlock snapped back to the reality. The cabbie seemed to take his second of silence as surprise.

"Oh.  _Dull_ ," he scoffed despite his hands would've been shaking like leaves next to his legs were he not balling them into tight fists.

"It gets better, I promise."

"No one takes their own life when threatened with a firearm."

"No, no they don't," Hope agreed. "Come on in and I'll show you. It's much better."

He smiled briefly and pocketed the weapon. The lighting here was dim, but after his initial fright Sherlock had taken a better look at it, and he was fairly positive the "weapon" was nothing more than a toy.

"Don't need it with you, though, do I?"

Sherlock would have hated to admit it, but the cabbie was right. He didn't need to be forced to follow the murderer inside. His own curiosity was enough to drive him. He got on his unsteady legs and took several staggering steps towards the cabbie. The world went spinning around him and he would've probably lost his balance entirely had the cabbie not been there to support him. He didn't resist when the man helped him inside the building and through the dark corridors.

Jeff Hope led him to an empty cafeteria. Tall windows faced an empty, dark car park on the other side of the building they'd arrived to. Hope didn't switch on all the lights. "This okay?"

Sherlock leant to the door frame. He swallowed and blinked a few times before replying. "You tell me."

"I'm alright with it if you are. You're the one who's going to die here."

Sherlock shook his head. Even the short walk here had exhausted and disorientated him. "No," he simply said.

He would not. No matter what happened, he would not die today. Not as a slave. Not on someone else's conditions.

"That's what they all say." The cabbie looked amused. "Let's talk. Take a seat," he advised.

Sherlock walked as gracefully as he could with his wobbly legs and pulled a seat closer to the windows. He collapsed on the chair and slumped against the table. Jeff Hope sat down opposite to him. He smirked, but Sherlock could only hear it in his voice with his cheek against the surface, eyes closed.

"You'll be weak as a kitten for at least another hour. I could do anything I wanted to you now, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock grunted and waved the comment off with his right hand. The left he kept on his lap, out of sight. The disorientation faded a little again.

"Anything at all... But don't worry, I'm only gonna talk to you."

"You talk big," Sherlock mumbled. "Anything at all" was hardly going to frighten him. It wasn't much of a threat to a slave. "Quite a risk. People saw us. My m– colleague at the restaurant saw."

John must have seen. He wasn't a complete idiot, he'd know something had gone wrong. Eventually. The question was...how long would it take for John to realise that this time he hadn't just wandered off on his own? And what would he do about it? Would he even care? He really couldn't trust for John to do anything and had he not been drugged he wouldn't have cared. But now... Like the cabbie had said, he  _was_  weak and if the man realised he was a slave his situation would only worsen.

"Risk?" the cabbie echoed. "What can he do? No. The real risk is what I'm about to show you."

Sherlock lifted up his head enough to see the cabbie portentously reach in the left pocket of his cardigan and placed a small, sealed glass bottle on the table. Inside was a single white capsule. Sherlock didn't feel impressed and rested his forehead against the table again.

"Come on, Mr Holmes. This is the best bit!"

"I'm not in mood for prolonged suspense," Sherlock murmured at the table. While he might have liked dragging things himself to impress others, he didn't appreciate the same being done to him.

"Oh, but you're gonna love this!" Hope exclaimed. "Come on, Mr Holmes. Cheer up! Play the game."

"What game?"

"Ah," the cabbie smiled with self-satisfaction. "You don't get it yet, do you?"

Sherlock sighed loudly. It took him considerable effort to sit up straight. Just walking here seemed to have completely drained him. He propped an elbow on the table to support his forehead with his hand to get a proper look at the bottle on the table. It did intrigue him.

"Go on then."

The cabbie smiled, his bad teeth showing between his lips. "You're gonna love this. Just watch."

He reached back into his pocket and placed an identical bottle on the table. "Weren't expecting that, we you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and adopted a skeptical expression. The cabbie only looked amused.

"Sherlock Holmes..." he spoke, smugly shaking his head a little. "I've heard so much about you. And look at you now, all at my mercy."

Sherlock swallowed hard and tried if pressing his eyelids did any good for the headache. It didn't. "How did you recognise me?"

"Your fan described you. He told me all about you. I recognised the coat right away."

"A lucky guess then."

"Not really. I knew to expect you."

"My fan?" Sherlock questioned, hoping to hear more about this...entity, clearly pulling the ropes.

"Your fan, yeah. Told me about you, told me about the website. I've been to it, you know. Many times. Brilliant stuff, loved it! Your bruise analysis is incredibly thorough. And quite a bit more interesting than tobacco ashes. And the case files!  _That_  is proper thinking. You're a genius!" he praised. "You should update more often. Though you can't after tonight, can you?"

He chuckled at his own joke, then shook his head somewhat mournfully. "Between you and me...why can't people think?"

When Sherlock still said nothing, his expression turned angrier. "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just  _think_?"

Sherlock let the man's rant sink in for a while before straightening his back. Even thinking was like swimming in some kind of thick, murky water. He leant forward, both arms on the table now. "Oh,  _I see_. So you're  _a genius_ , too?"

The man didn't seem to get the sarcasm. "Don't look like one, do I? A funny little man, driving a cab. But it's perfect, actually. No one ever thinks anything of you, you're just a back of a head."

Sherlock held his gaze and smirked. Oh, he knew the feeling. Perhaps they  _did_ have something in common after all. He looked at the bottles.

"Fine. What happens now? Explain."

* * *

John paid and stepped out of the taxi. This was where the GPS signal had led him. His phone battery would run out any minute now, but at least the dot indicating Holmes's location had been stationary for many minutes now. He hoped it didn't indicate the slave was dead.

A lone taxi stood parked at the front. The numbers matched. It was the same car that had taken Holmes. The police weren't here yet.

Two identical buildings formed the Roland-Kerr Further Education College he'd arrived to. Both were mostly dark at this hour. Was Holmes inside? Or somewhere out in the yard between them? The GPS signal wasn't reliable enough for him know for sure.

He tried calling for Holmes, but no reply came. Should he go in? Search the yard first? Holmes could be lying somewhere unconscious.

All the other victims had been indoors, hadn't they? He wasn't sure.

Wiggling his fingers nervously John chose one of the buildings at random and tried the door. When it opened easily, he ran inside, shouting for his slave. No reply came, but John kept calling as he tried doors and looked into classrooms and offices. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridors.

What he'd do if —when, definitely when, he found Holmes and the cab driver he had no idea of. The murderer, despite being a poisoner could very well be armed and John couldn't help but to wish he'd taken his gun.

 _He's not here, he's not here..!_  frantic thoughts screamed, urging him to hurry, to search the other building.

 _He could be upstairs._   _He might not be able to answer._

 _He might have ran off for good_ , a silent voice at the back of his mind suggested, but John dismissed the idea. Holmes's ID-chip had led him here.

John searched the upper floor, then ran back down, skipping steps as he did. He pushed the front door open, shoulder first and strode towards the twin building when a noise that haunted his dreams pierced the air. He lunged towards the nearest cover, but even as he did he realised he wasn't the target. The sound seemed to have come from the back of the college.

He stood up just as the first police car pulled to the front, soon followed by others, and he couldn't do anything but to stand back. He saw Lestrade and Donovan step out of a civilian car, but was stopped from approaching them. He tried to get past the officer blocking his way, arguing he needed to speak with Lestrade. It was his slave somewhere out there.

And someone had just fired a rifle.

* * *

A good bottle and a bad bottle. One of which Hope had slid across the table to him. His grand manoeuvre.

Sherlock scoffed at the idea. No matter how much Jeff Hope insisted it was a psychological game it was still ultimately a fifty-fifty chance. He might have fooled the others to roll the dice with his toy gun, but he wouldn't fool Sherlock so easily. No matter which he chose, it was chance.

"You've already drugged me," Sherlock argued. "If you wanted me dead you could have done it already. Why would I choose either?"

"Nothing life threatening," the cabbie dismissed. It wasn't anything personal he said. He just liked the game.

Hope could claim it to be chess all he wanted. A mind game, a way to determine which of them was superior.

"I've played four times and I'm still alive and kicking. You're not playing the numbers, you're playing  _me_."

Had Sherlock been in his slave mode, he would have flinched at the cabbie's tone. But at the moment he wasn't a slave. At the moment they were equals. He could look at his abductor in the eye with confidence he rarely got to show without severe consequences.

"It's a game. It's genius! I know how people think."

Instead of rolling his eyes Sherlock just chose to close them again.

"I know how people think I think. I can  _see it_ ," Hope boasted. Sherlock snorted.

"Everyone's so stupid —even you."

He snapped his eyes open again. Jeff Hope gave him a knowing look. "Ready to play?"

"I could just walk away," he remarked, propping himself up.

"You could try," the cabbie laughed. "You wouldn't even make it out of this room. Either you play or I choose for you and force it down your throat."

They stared at each other for several seconds until Sherlock had to break the eye contact. His eyes simply wouldn't stay focused. Or at least he wanted to tell himself that was the reason. He fumbled to find the chair again and very nearly tripped on the floor before managing to sit back down. When his eyes found the cabbie again, the look on his face had changed.

The man seized his left arm, knocking over the bottle he'd slid to Sherlock's side of the table and pulled the coat sleeve up to reveal the wrist and the codes tattooed on it. "What's this?"

His heart skipped a beat, but he looked the cabbie dead in the eye. "That's my stigma."

He attempted a humorous smile. "And my barcode."

The cabbie's expression morphed to one of disdain and he shoved the arm away as if it were filthy. "Where's your master? Where's the  _real_  Sherlock Holmes?"

Anger rushed through him, but for once it was good. It gave him the much needed focus. "I  _am_  the real Sherlock Holmes."

"No. You're a slave."

" _Regrettably_."

Jeff Hope looked at him, thinking. Judging. He leant back on his chair and shook his head slowly. "Nah. You're not him."

"You don't think a slave like me could know all those things?" Sherlock challenged. "You think because I'm a slave I must be intellectually inferior? Just a few minutes ago you were praising my intelligence."

He knew he sounded desperate. He  _was_  desperate. It had been so long since anyone had treated him truly as their equal. As a human being. Even if it were a from the mouth of a serial killer, he'd take it.

Lestrade tolerated him, Mrs Hudson felt she owed him. But neither ever forgot what he was. And John Watson, while fascinating in his attempt to be both, a master and a friend, owned him.

Jeff Hope kept watching him, radiating silent fury. "I should've known from the start."

He really should have. All the signs had been there. When a free man was attacked, most fought back, but a slave... A slave's first instinct was to become submissive. And that was exactly what Sherlock had done. He had allowed Hope to push himself against the wall, he hadn't fought or resisted having his arm seized.

"Killing you won't even be a crime," Hope spat out.

"It's a property crime," Sherlock countered, though he hated to admit the fact that should the man succeed in killing him, it would not be a murder. It wouldn't even be a manslaughter. If he died, he would become a pitiful piece of destroyed property.

The cabbie's lips curled in distaste. "I'm not getting paid for destroying property."

"Paid?" Sherlock leant forward. " _Interesting_."

Mr Hope assumed a more self-satisfied expression. "I've got a sponsor."

"My fan again?"

"The fan of Sherlock Holmes."

"I am Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm willing to believe he owns you and for some reason rather sent you than came himself."

"A man called Sherlock Holmes doesn't even exist," Sherlock snarled at the cabbie. "If you truly researched me so thoroughly beforehand, you should've checked. Or did my "fan" forget to mention? I'm  _owned_ by a man named John Watson."

He followed the cabbie's gaze that lingered on his arm. "And yes, I'm chipped."

"That doesn't worry me," Jeff Hope said. "I'll be long gone before anyone comes to look for you.  _If_  they come. You're just a slave."

"I may be a slave, but I  _am_ still the same man you thought I was when you drugged me."

The cabbie looked anything but convinced. Typical free citizen. As soon as it came out he was a slave, he was instantly worth less than a dog, no matter what they had thought of him before finding out about his status.

"Shall I prove it?" he prompted irritably. No reply came, so he fired away. Time to put in use the little he'd managed to make out of this man in the taxi.

With quick, sharp sentences he spoke of the cabbie's lonely life. How he had no one at home waiting for him, not even a slave. Of the wife that had left him and of the children he still loved and she had taken away. And as he spoke he could see Hope's mask slipping. The more Sherlock spoke, the more it twisted a knife in him. At first it was sorrow and shame, but as soon as Sherlock mentioned the kids his eyes narrowed and anger flared.

"You foul mouthed–"

"But there's more," Sherlock cut him off before he could finish. Being interrupted by a slave who acted like an equal always took them by surprise –and Sherlock felt more confident by each sentence. "Your clothes are worse than mine. About...three years old? You aren't planning ahead much."

The corner of Hope's mouth twitched. Something...something important he was still missing.

_Focus._

"And here you are... Risking your life, just to kill strangers," he thought out loud. Jeff Hope's eyes averted and more pieces came together. The picture was almost complete. Only few missing pieces remained. But he'd get there.

"You're dying."

"So are you," the cabbie countered. His tongue brushed against his upper teeth as he kept watching Sherlock for a reaction.

"I'm a slave, the risk's always lingering somewhere," Sherlock dismissed. "You though...you've been dying for three years."

The cabbie said nothing, still attempting to stay inexpressive.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Sherlock claimed. "Hurts worse when the truth comes from a slave, doesn't it?"

That broke Jeff Hope into a conceited smile. "Aneurism," he told, tapping his right temple. "Right here. Any breath could be my last."

Sherlock smiled, too. How good it felt to be doing this again –say out loud what he thought and  _be right_. But the adrenalin his fit of anger had produced was wearing off and the grogginess was seeping back. "So you're dying and decided to, what, assassinate people for cash? Why?"

"I'm not an assassin, Mr Holmes," the cabbie laughed.

"Then how did you pick them?" Sherlock pressed, hiding how pleased it made him the man was calling him Mr Holmes again.

The cabbie shrugged. "Anybody I could walk through a wrong door, really. People who didn't know where they were going, people lost in a new town."

"Why would anyone pay you for killing random people?"

"Why would anyone be fan of a slave?" the cabbie countered instantly. "Some people have more unusual interests than others."

Sherlock could have named a number of talented musicians with fan following who were owned by their producers or agents, but instead he fixed his gaze on the bottle closer to the cabbie.  _Focus_ , he reminded himself. There was still the deadly gamble, there were still things he wanted to figure out.

The money, the money...something about the money. Someone paying, a sponsor. Why a sponsor? Fan of him, fan of murder –no! Not relevant, not now. The money, where does it –of course!

"The money is for your children," he realised.

"Oh, you're  _good_." The man sounded delighted. "Yes, exactly. Driving cabs doesn't make you rich. But every time I kill...money goes for my kids and the more I kill the more they'll get. Don't want them ending up like..."

He smirked. "Well, ending up like  _you_."

Sherlock's eyes averted. The slave in him resurfaced, triggered by such a simple remark. For a sickening moment, he felt he should bow down his head. Like he should be kneeling on the floor instead of sitting here. He used the moment to dig the gloves from his pockets as if that was why he looked away.

"But that's enough chatter." The cabbie straightened on his seat. His tone was more commanding than it had been at any point so far. Voice of a free man talking to a slave. "Choose."

Sherlock said nothing, just silently pulled the gloves over his hands and studied the small bottles on the table.

"Sherlock Holmes I imagined might have stood a chance. But now that I know what you really are... I think I'll just go find myself the real fifth victim after I'm done with you."

He knew the cabbie was just winding him up. He knew and yet... He wanted to prove himself right, to gain recognition from someone, even if it was a serial killer.

"Do you think you can beat me? You're good, but at the end of the day, you're just a slave."

"Social status is not a measure of intelligence."

"Then prove it, Mr Holmes. Pick your medicine. But which one I gave you? Was it a bluff? Or double-bluff? Triple-bluff?"

"It's chance," he insisted, but his eyes were drawn to the bottles. "You're just lucky."

"If that's what you wanna believe.

Sherlock stared at the man angrily before snatching one of the containers and getting up.

" _Interesting_ ," the cabbie smirked as he watched Sherlock struggling to stay on his own two feet. He took the bottle left on the table and unhurriedly screwed the lid open.

"The thing is," he said, standing up as well, "I sort of think I know how you feel. People don't really notice slaves, do they? It's the same with us cabbies," he told, watching like a hawk as Sherlock fumbled to unscrew his bottle.

"They all think they're above you. They act like you don't even exist. But really... _really_  they're all just a bunch of idiots."

Sherlock's hand trembled as he pretended to examine the potentially deadly capsule between his gloved fingers. Jeff Hope watched him, his own pill already almost on his lips.

"What do you say,  _slave_?"

He didn't say anything. Sherlock's eyes widened as a glowing red mark appeared on the cabbie's chest. It moved slightly to rest on his heart.

"Really, do you think  _you_  can beat–"

Jeff Hope realised something had changed. He looked down just as the gunshot echoed through the room, loud and ringing in Sherlock's ears. Jeff Hope fell on his back, and Sherlock knelt down, frozen to the spot.

Don't move, don't blink, don't make a sound. Don't let them see your fear.  _Don't resist._  Just watch and listen and obey and accept, and  _maybe_  they won't shoot you, too.

Jeff Hope lay on the floor in a quickly forming puddle of his own blood. Across the empty cafeteria the bullet had made a neat a hole in the window, but it was difficult to see if anyone was behind the glass when it was dark outside and the room was partially lit. And whoever the shooter had been, he was probably well on his way by the time Sherlock regained his mobility.

The cabbie groaned in pain and Sherlock's attention was back on him.

"Was I right?" he demanded. "Tell me! Did I pick the right one?"

The cabbie just chuckled and shook his head. Whether it was a "no, I won't tell you" or a "no, you didn't" he couldn't tell. Sherlock grit his teeth.

"Fine, my fan, what about him?" he cried, kneeling beside the man. "Your sponsor."

"No."

Because Hope had moved the bullet intended for his heart had hit too high. Not an instant death, but there was so much blood the man wouldn't live much longer. Sherlock grabbed the cabbie's shoulder and pressed his thumb on the bullet wound. "You'll die, but I can still hurt you" he growled, pressing harder. "Tell me!"

Jeff Hope screamed in pain and, god, it felt  _amazing_  for once to be the one causing someone pain. He applied more pressure and more blood pooled out.

"M-Moriarty. Moriarty!" the man shrieked over and over again, but Sherlock did not let go. The man's struggling was too weak for him to get away from the slave. Sherlock pressed and twisted his thumb as hard as he could and it took him several seconds to realise the cabbie was dead.

He looked at his hand. The black glove was soaked in blood.

Sherlock recoiled violently from the corpse, stumbling backwards and ripping off his gloves. He threw them away in near panic, breath caught in his throat. The room had become eerily silent.

He staggered, legs giving out and fell on the floor despite trying to hold on to the table behind him to stay on his feet. He hugged the table leg, dragging himself half under the table.

One of the white capsules lay in his arm's reach, but he had no idea which one it was. The room was spinning again, so he lay down, rested his cheek against the cold floor. The cabbie lay dead and unmoving.

Sherlock was still a slave astray, but he was too tired, too panicked and too nauseous to care. He'd find a way to get back to John's flat later. It was safer for a slave to move in daylight anyway. He'd be stopped far less likely. So surely he could rest for a minute or two. He was tired, so tired...

He jolted awake to the sound of doors slammed open. There were footsteps and shouting and people, but he couldn't make sense of any of it.

He remembered the gunshot and the blood and brains splattering on the hot tarmac.

Someone knelt beside him and Sherlock tried desperately to stand up. Oh god, he had to get up and work or they'd kill him, too.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy..!" Hands steadied him and prevented him from moving.

He blinked several times, willing his eyes to focus, to make some sense of the surroundings.

 _Lestrade_. Why was Lestrade here?

"No, no, no, look  _at me_ , Sherlock," the man told frantically, but quietly enough for no one else in the room to hear his name. Something Sherlock was immensely grateful for. "Come on, keep your eyes on me. That's it. What did he give you? Quick, tell me! That's an order!"

Lestrade's words made little sense to him.

"Where's the ambulance? He needs help!"

Sherlock was shivering all over and  _nothing_  in the situation made sense until he saw the cabbie's body over Lestrade's shoulder. He went boneless from relief. Yes, that was it. He was in London, he had just narrowly escaped death and John clearly had not abandoned him if he had found a way to contact Lestrade.

The man himself however panicked, shouted for help again and slapped hard Sherlock's left cheek to keep him awake. "God dammit, Sherlock, you're not dying in my arms. Come on, stay with me!"

"I'm alright," Sherlock murmured. "He drugged me, but it's not the poison."

He swallowed as he saw one of Anderson's underlings spot his gloves.

"Just a bit nauseous. Disorientated," he explained. "He– I didn't– Someone shot him through the window. I tried to ask him about the pills, but– The blood, I thought, I thought– I did  _not_  kill him!"

"Okay, slow down," Lestrade urged, fearing the slave would start hyperventilating. "No one's accusing you of a murder. Your new owner called, reported you missing. Sort of. Come on, I'll get you out of here. You can explain what happened after your head's cleared up a bit."

Sherlock nodded shakily. "Thank you, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade helped him up, and one of the police slaves helped him out. By the time he got out in the crisp January night's air he was already walking straight without the other slave's support. The fact that his current weakness was caused not because of the drug in his system, but because of his mind betraying him was repulsive. No matter how normal it was, he loathed himself for letting the past affect him this way.

The ambulance had just arrived. As Jeff Hope was far beyond their help, the staff seemed annoyed that the only person they were needed for was in fact not a person at all. They talked to him, checked him for injuries and concluded he wasn't injected with anything lethal and it would be for the best just to wait it to wear off. There was nothing uncommon about a slave and a panic attack, and people tended to treat them as mild inconveniences. Sherlock would rather not have even mentioned it, but the police slave did. As expected, he was only told to get himself together. They wrapped him up with a blanket, offered him hot water with sugar and then left him waiting.

Sherlock sat at the back of the ambulance, orange blanket draped around his shoulders for a long time. He would've much rather returned to the scene of crime, but had firmly been ordered to stay put until Lestrade would have time to talk with him. Sally paid him a brief visit to ask what had happened and to inform him his owner had been contacted. Several others came in small groups with camera phones and took pictures of him.

Eventually the Detective Inspector showed up.

"You reek. Have you been drinking?"

Sherlock shook his head. His thoughts were much clearer now, but he felt exhausted. "I threw a glass of white wine on my face."

"I'm not even asking," Lestrade sighed. "So... How are you doing?"

"I'd have been more useful inside than sitting here," Sherlock grumbled.

"I don't know, you seemed pretty out of it."

"I'm fine now," he lied. Mostly he was, anyway. "And I don't need this, but they threatened me with a beating if I didn't keep it," he complained, waving his arms to show off the stupid bright coloured blanket.

"That's because they don't want any complaints from your owner. It's for the shock."

"I'm not in shock."

"Well, you  _were_  in shock," Lestrade corrected. "And that's fine, you nearly got yourself killed."

"No, the shooter wasn't aiming at me."

Lestrade hummed in agreement. "Guy like that's bound to have some enemies. Wanna explain what happened?"

Sherlock did, starting from how he'd texted to Jennifer Wilson's mobile and finished to the unexpected shooter. Of the words exchanged with Jeff Hope, he only told the facts relevant to the case.

"Just one more unfinished business then," Lestrade stated after he was done. "We still haven't found that suitcase you kept talking about."

"Case?" He was momentarily at loss. "Oh yes, that case. I found it. Talk to John, it's at his flat."

"Sherlock! You can't withhold evidence!" Lestrade exclaimed, slapping him.

"Don't call me that," Sherlock asked quietly. "Please."

"You're a slave," the Detective Inspector continued without acknowledging his request. "And even if you weren't, you can't just go looking for evidence on your own and take it!"

"I found you the murderer, what does it matter?" he argued irritably. "I told you where it is. John will be happy to get rid of it."

Lestrade sighed exaggeratedly, but dug his pockets for a replacement phone to make a memo. Sherlock watched his fingers tap the tiny keyboard.

"My gloves..." he started cautiously. "Can I have them back?"

The Detective Inspector shook his head. "They're evidence."

"I know. But later," he clarified. It was futile, he knew, but he didn't have much. Technically,  _he_  was evidence, too. "I don't have any other gloves," he added quietly.

Lestrade bit his lip. "I don't know... Probably not. Besides, they're ruined anyway."

" _Please_. To you they're just gloves, but–" He cut himself off realising how much of a slave he sounded like. It  _wasn't_  sentiment. They just happened to be good at hiding his stigma.

Lestrade shook his head apologetically, but he knew what the slave meant. He had slaves at home, too, and he knew how slaves could treasure even seemingly insignificant things they may have owned. "Sorry, I can't promise anything."

Sherlock nodded in defeat. He still had the coat, his most prized possession after the violin. Perhaps, if he behaved well, John might give him other gloves to use. It wouldn't be the same, but really it should make no difference whether he actually had something like gloves or not.

He must have looked truly miserable, for Lestrade said: "I'll buy you a new pair."

He blinked. "Would you..?"

The man smiled. "Well, like you said, you found us the murderer. I guess you've earned it. If only you'd got us the shooter, too."

"We're looking for a sniper," Sherlock smirked. For a new pair of gloves he could show off a little.

"A sniper..?"

"With a laser sight. Check the opposite building. Ground floor, first floor. Maybe even second floor. We were close enough to the windows, but my guess is ground floor. Acclimatised to violence, military background. The shooter didn't aim to injure, he shot to kill. But he didn't shoot until my life was in danger..." Sherlock trailed off. It didn't seem probable the shooter had deliberately waited until he was in danger.

"You think the shooter was protecting you?"

"If he didn't know I'm a slave, then perhaps..."

"Could be someone whose loved one was already killed," Lestrade suggested. "I mean, you found him, so..."

"Revenge doesn't explain why he didn't shoot until I was in danger," he pointed out, annoyed that Lestrade suggested someone else might have found the cabbie, too. The DI should have known better. "But if any of the victims have an army level sniper in their family, let me know."

It was an unlikely theory. Why the cabbie was killed, he didn't know, but it was too much of a coincidence Hope was shot by a sniper and someone had paid him for killing –just because they found it amusing. The two had to be connected. Could the cabbie have got too carried away with it? But why risk and leave Sherlock alive?

Moriarty, what or whoever it was, had to be responsible. If Moriarty liked him, then it made sense to let him live. The laser sight might even have been a message. But that  _did_ indicate protection of some kind and he didn't like what that suggested. He already had one owner and John certainly wasn't the shooter.

"I think it's likelier he'd only arrived. You didn't show up much later," Sherlock continued, eyes scanning the crowd behind the police line. The shooter was unlikely to linger, but one never knew... He stopped at a familiar face.

John stood hands clasped behind his back, watching them with slight concern rather than anger Sherlock normally would've expected from a master. The moment was eerily similar to that of almost five years before. He remembered talking with Lestrade and Donovan, then spotting his owner in the crowd. Their eyes had met, his master smirked and Sherlock had known only pain would await him. But it wasn't like that at all tonight.

John wasn't like that. He couldn't afford to lose a master like John.

"Yeah, but we were tracking you," Lestrade pointed out. "How would've he known?"

"I don't know..." he admitted, meeting John's eyes. His master smiled at him reassuringly.

Sherlock tore his eyes away and turned sharply back at Lestrade. "Anyway. It's late," he declared. "And my master's there. I should check on him."

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned quietly.

"I need to go see if he needs me."

"Holmes..!" Lestrade cried, not buying into his act of worry over his master.

" _And_  I've just caught you a serial killer," he reminded. "Sort of. Also I'm in shock, as you yourself said. I'm no use to anyone right now."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Fine, go if you have to... But I'm pulling you in for a statement tomorrow. Or by Monday the latest. And I'll need that suitcase."

"I'll see if I'm in any shape for a statement tomorrow," Sherlock sighed. "John– My master," he corrected, "was somewhat unhappy with me earlier. I've earned myself quite a beating."

Lestrade nodded sternly. Sherlock shook the blanket off his shoulders and threw it into the ambulance before bowing his goodbyes to the Detective Inspector.

"Sherlock."

The slave paused when the DI touched his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Let me know if he goes too far."

Tired, but genuine smile passed the slave's lips. "I will."

Greg Lestrade watched him walk away to his new owner. He approached slowly, head slightly inclined to look at least a little apologetic. Greg didn't believe for a second that was how Sherlock truly felt. He stayed to watch far enough to not hear what was spoken, but close enough to intervene should he be needed. He fully understood of course that Dr Watson would be having some words and more with his slave. Had Greg been in his place, he would've disciplined Sherlock, too. He was a great help to the police and what he did was truly unique, but he was still a slave and a damn nuisance of a slave.

At the crime scene earlier Sherlock had been his old self. For a moment Greg had thought the slave hadn't changed a bit during the last few years until Dr Watson had interfered. He'd never seen the joy of a case die so quickly in Sherlock's eyes. He'd never seen him return to his master's side with such beaten impression, without a word of defiance.

Of course, he had recovered quickly and caused a scene, but nevertheless. And the shape he'd been in tonight when they'd found him. Sherlock hadn't even known him at first. Greg had never seen him in such intense state of horror. Whatever had happened to him during the past few years (America was it?) had changed him.

Greg watched Sherlock converse with his master. The man had every right to be angry with his property, but he wished Dr Watson to be reasonable with his discipline. Sherlock, over the course of time he'd known him, seemed to have an unfortunate trait of attracting violent masters. Violent within the law mostly, but still violent.

Even so there was no denying that had Greg himself been Sherlock's owner, he would've already had the slave beaten. John's dignity and ability to see the bigger picture for letting Sherlock go see the body after speaking like that was admirable.

The last time, the final time, when Sherlock had been helping Greg's team had ended with him in a hospital. His owner, who after a lot of persuasion had agreed on borrowing Sherlock, had arrived to pick him up mere minutes after everything at the scene was over. Very much in the same manner John Watson had tonight.

To this day, Greg had no idea what had triggered it, but one moment everything was perfectly alright –the next he heard Sherlock screaming and the slave was on the ground, his owner viciously kicking him. His owner had been so violent, so enraged it took both him and Anderson to drag the man away from Sherlock.

The owner and Donovan had had an outright screaming competition when the man insisted Sherlock was his property and he could discipline him the way he felt was needed. Sally screamed back at him how he was way overdoing it, how his form of discipline was verging on illegal.

But despite the bleeding, bruising and swelling, no life-threatening or permanent harm had come to Sherlock. After he'd been patched up at a hospital they had had no other choice but to return him to his legal owner. Greg would forever remember the call he received a few weeks later, three o'clock in the morning. Sherlock's panicky voice in his ear, begging for him to come and help.

"I–I... This is bad. This is  _really_  bad. I'm sorry, you're the only one I could think of. Please come, I need your help."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are you alright? Breathe, tell me what happened."

"I've called 999. An ambulance is coming. So are the police, I think. Please. They'll kill me if you won't help me."

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

The slave's voice had been pitched and breathless, he'd sounded as if he didn't quite believe or want to believe what he was saying. "I hit him. I hit my own master."

Pity being hit by a rugby trophy hadn't killed the man. Though had he died or been permanently injured there would've been nothing Greg could've done to save Sherlock's life. After being taken away in slave cuffs the next time Greg saw him he had been under a very real threat of termination. His case had attracted some attention from slave rights activists, but it was Greg who ultimately spoke in defence of 99OR-79/3J3A.

He had unsuccessfully tried to encourage his department to purchase Sherlock after his violent owner had been given a twelve-year slave keeping ban, but by the time Greg had been ready to buy the man himself, he'd already been sold elsewhere. He hadn't seen or heard from Sherlock for over four years before now. He'd tried asking at InS, but they hadn't been willing to give him any information other than that the item he was looking for was no longer on sale. All he had got out of the receptionist after a lot of pestering and asking if he could at least be notified if Sherlock would be sold again had been a dry laughter: "I can't tell you were it's been sold, but one thing's for sure..! It's not coming back."

Well. Sherlock had proven them wrong. Greg could only hope Sherlock would finally settle for his standing in the society, and that his new owner, Dr Watson, would treat him well.

He watched them walk away, side by side, and though he could not be sure, he could have sworn he heard laughter.

* * *

Holmes ducked under the police tape and approached his master with a bowed head. "Hello, master."

John smacked the back of his head, mostly just because something like that was expected of him, but it was still harder than he had meant it to be. He was relieved his slave was alive and well, truly he was, but underneath he was still incredibly angry for Holmes's earlier behaviour.

Holmes seemed to think nothing of it. He bowed his head a little further before standing up straight.

"I was talking to Sergeant Donovan earlier," John spoke. "She's mostly explained what happened."

"I knew you'd figure out something was wrong," the slave smirked. He hesitated for a moment. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For... For not...abandoning me. You realised something was wrong, alerted Lestrade, tracked me here. I don't think any of my previous owners would've cared. Or known what to do."

"No one takes my property and gets away with it," John replied. His mouth was a firm line for a second until he continued: "I got here before the police did. I was about to search the other building when I heard the shot and... I thought I was too late."

"I'm fine."

"Are you? From what I've heard, you were a wreck when Lestrade found you."

"I'm fine now."

"What about that pill? Sergeant Donovan told me. Two pills and a choice. You weren't gonna take it, were you?"

"I don't know," Holmes admitted.

"Oh god, you would've," John groaned. "You defy your owners to prove a point. You risk your health and safety to feel clever."

Sherlock huffed dryly. He hadn't energy left to argue. Instead he asked: "What about you? Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Like you said, I dragged you out to a crime scene against your will. Two people were killed tonight. Bit different from euthanising a slave. Most people wouldn't approve." He looked down at his master's face, examining it for a slightest twitch of a muscle, but John's expression remained the same.

"That cabbie wasn't exactly a nice guy. I've seen plenty of people die, and some of them were pretty good people, too. I killed few myself, people and slaves alike. Tonight isn't going to weight much compared to that."

Sherlock accepted his words with a nod. Truth to be told, he had been worried. One needn't be a genius to figure out why the man had trouble sleeping. And he was surprised, given that he'd been with the man for over a week now that John hadn't yet ordered him into his bed. Sherlock had after all heard him in the shower twice quite clearly. Sex, Sherlock assumed, was something a man like John would have to soothe his nerves. He was a soldier and it was no secret that military bases were equipped with slaves whose sole purpose was to cater to the soldiers' sexual needs and offer them comfort. But perhaps tonight was not the night John required such services after all.

"He treated me as equal even after he learnt what I am," he told, not really knowing why he said it at all. Perhaps it was the drug in his system. "Eventually."

"And that appeals to you?" John questioned dubiously.

"How could it not?"

"Well maybe if you accepted–"

"I  _do_  accept what I am," Sherlock snapped. "...doesn't mean I have to like it."

"You'd be happier if you did," his master pointed out. "Because like it or not, you are. What you do –it's...amazing. I've said it before and you are, you're brilliant. But it won't change the fact that you are a slave.  _My_  slave. And the way you've been behaving, the things you've said —it's unacceptable. I can't let you get away with it. We can't– I can't..."

John paused to fumble for words, to find a way to explain that he just couldn't let himself forget that. That when he looked at Holmes he saw brilliance, but he knew he wasn't supposed to. It wasn't proper. He wasn't supposed to say it out loud, he wasn't supposed to look at his slave like that. Slaves were not people.

"We can't be anything but a master and a slave," Holmes finished for him. "I offended you and it's your right to punish me for it. I know.  _All of me belongs to you and is yours to use as you please. I give myself willingly and deserve nothing in return_ ," he quoted cheerlessly.

"Yes," John agreed. "Yes. And I'm glad you didn't get yourself killed. Come on, it's getting late. We should head home."

"We'll have to stop by at Angelo's first," the slave pointed out.

"Why?"

"You forgot your cane."

John looked at him with dumbfound expression. Then he snorted and it turned into bubbling laughter and he laughed, laughed like hadn't laughed in months. Holmes was difficult and a git, but he was also wonderful and intelligent and  _yes this would work, they would work._

Somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the interest, sorry it took long and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think if you've got a moment. Until next time –when Mycroft returns. :)


	9. Chapter 9

It was long past midnight when they made their way back to John's flat. Holmes seemed to have lost all of his previous energy and dozed off entirely in the taxi. He slumped against the seat and leant to his master, head on his shoulder.

John had allowed it, but when they stepped in and Holmes all but collapsed on his spot with his shoes and coat still on, just dropping John's cane aside, John wasn't happy. While he removed his jacket, the slave pulled the blanket to cover himself entirely. The pink suitcase still sat on the floor.

"Not yet, Holmes. It's cold and I'd like a cup of tea first."

The slave didn't even stir.

"Holmes," he called, but no reply came. He tried again with a more demanding tone and carefully shook the man with his foot.

"What?" an irritated, muffled reply came from under the covers. "I haven't been sleeping well. I was on a case, you saw me. It's my legal right to sleep, so fuck off."

" _What?_ "

Holmes merely mumbled something incoherent and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

"Did you just tell  _me_ to fuck off?"

Holmes growled. "Yes! Now  _please_ let me sleep. You don't want to drink caffeine at this hour."

"Right... Up! Up immediately!" John grabbed the blanket and forcefully pulled it away. "On your knees,  _right now._ "

The slave moaned, but obeyed reluctantly. "What?"

"You seriously don't see anything wrong with this picture?"

Holmes blinked a few times, ran fingers through his messy hair, then slowly shook his head.

"You just told me to fuck off!"

"Fine," the irritable slave retorted. "I apologise, it was unacceptably rude. Now  _please_ , master, let me sleep."

"You're not sleeping before  _I_  allow it."

"It's my  _legal right_..!"

John slapped him across the face. "And it's my legal right to demand  _respect_  from my property! So you're not sleeping until you've properly apologised and been disciplined!"

"I'm just going to fall asleep on the floor if you make me bow now," Holmes said between grit teeth.

"No, I forbid you from falling asleep."

Holmes's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in anger.

" _Don't_  toy with me, or this  _will_  be worse," John warned, giving what he hoped to be a threatening glance towards the cane on the floor. "You've been winding me up since day one. Well now you've won. I've had it. I've no more patience left to deal with you. This has been long due, I should've done this already.  _Get up_  and undress."

Holmes moaned, but shrugged off the coat, undid his scarf, unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the floor as he got up on his feet.

"Everything, Holmes."

The slave bit his lip, but stepped off his shoes, let the trousers and his pants drop on the floor and kicked them away before ripping off his socks.

"Good. Face the wall."

Holmes obeyed. He stood straight, arms folded over his chest, legs slightly spread to give him a steady stance. Numerous scars covering his skin from shoulders to thighs spoke heavily of the slave's past and nature. But the long, narrow scars weren't caused by abuse. They were well healed, done professionally. Only InS could have inflicted them.

He'd of course heard what InS did to escapees, but he'd never seen the damage up close. It must have been excruciatingly painful –or so he'd heard. He had not interest to ever witness it, much less experience it.

Holmes had been subjected to it thrice. John had noticed the scars on the very day he got Holmes, but he hadn't really looked at them before, hadn't really thought of what they meant. Holmes was not, and had never been, a good slave. He had earned his scars.

"I don't get you, Holmes, I really don't," John spoke as he undid his belt. "Your behaviour today was unacceptable, but I thought we could deal with it tomorrow. And then you just have to do this... You could've just obeyed or at least been respectful, but no. Instead you decided to defy and ignore me. I know you're tired and I'm tired, too, but  _you_ " he sneered, hitting the slave's scarred back with all the strength he had.

Holmes hissed in pain, but it was drowned by the sound of the belt smacking onto his back again. He unfolded his arms and leant against the wall with a muffled whine as his master struck him again and again with each word he spoke.

"You. Will. Not. Talk. To me. Like. That!"

Holmes sagged against the wall a little more at each strike. He tried to keep quiet, so each cry and yelp of pain came suppressed between grit teeth. Anger washed over John. It took him over, all the frustration from the past few days controlled his arms. He was only distantly aware of shrieks of pain he drew out of his slave.

"Stop, please!"

John stopped abruptly at the slave's plea for mercy. Holmes had screamed, but he hadn't said a word until now.

"Please. No more. Please..." he begged between ragged breaths. The slave whimpered. He had slumped all the way down, supporting nearly all his weight on his left knee, left arm and head pressed against the wall.

John swallowed hard and blinked at the sight before him.  _Shit._

He had meant to keep it civil, not beat his slave to the ground. He didn't regret the amount of force he'd used, but he hadn't meant to keep going.

He swallowed again and attempted to catch his breath before hastily putting the belt away. The slave's back and buttocks were covered in red welts and bruising was forming, but he had not drawn blood. Holmes drew two deep, shaky breaths before brushing away tears angrily.

"Are you done?" he snarled, but his entire body was trembling ever so slightly.

John ran his fingers through his hair. Despite being horrified of having lost himself to his anger like that, he was still angry. "For tonight, yeah. But that was just for disobeying me now. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow."

Holmes nodded as silent agreement. "Do you still want that tea?" he asked much more amiably.

He didn't, but John nodded anyway. He wouldn't be taking his orders back, not tonight. "Yes. But not before you've apologised."

The slave sighed, but turned around and kowtowed. "I'm deeply sorry, master."

"Not as sorry as you will be tomorrow," John snarled. He felt like kicking the man between the ribs, but suppressed the urge. Holmes's right hand had teeth marks where he must have bitten down on his fist to keep from screaming. "Get up, make that tea and go to sleep."

"Yes, master."

"Did I tell you to get dressed?" he snapped when the slave reached for his shirt. Holmes looked at him, hesitating briefly before withdrawing his hand.

"No, master."

"Then why are you still there?"

Holmes's jaw tightened and to his triumph, John thought he saw him blush slightly. The slave stood up abruptly.

"No reason at all," he replied, bowed and disappeared into to kitchen, his bare arse and back red from the beating. John watched him fill the kettle through the window between the two rooms. He had plenty of time to change into pyjamas and sit at the edge of the bed until Holmes returned with a mug of steaming tea. He accepted it, trying his hardest to act casual with the naked slave standing in front of him, crotch very much in the line of his sight. He sipped the tea, ignoring Holmes the best he could.

"Where's the milk?"

"We don't have any."

"Why?" he asked coolly.

"Because you haven't bought any," the slave replied softly, as neutrally as he could.

John looked up at him. "Me? This is my fault?"

"No," Holmes denied the accusation, but John continued as though he hadn't spoken at all: "How could I buy something, if I didn't know we're out of it?

"I assumed you knew."

"You  _assumed_?" John repeated mockingly. "You're supposed to tell me!"

"You never– You didn't tell me I'm supposed to do that," the slave tried to defend himself without sounding like he was arguing. "You buy the food, so I–"

" _Don't_  assume. If you don't know something, then ask! No matter how stupid the question, no matter how irrelevant it might seem to you."

"I'm sorry, John. I'll remember that next time," Holmes promised calmly. "Anything else I can do for you, master?"

John placed the mug on his night stand. "No. Clean up your mess and go to sleep."

He watched Holmes gather his clothes from the floor, and put aside John's cane before wishing his master goodnight. His back must have hurt him, but he fell asleep within minutes, long before John.

He was still angry in the morning as he poked his slave awake. Not as angry as he'd been the previous night, and he did feel bad about overreacting. But Holmes deserved it, he reasoned. In fact it was long due considering he'd only resorted to physical discipline once before last night. It had certainly not been an easy first week with his new slave.

So John did not back away from his threat. After they'd had breakfast and Holmes had done the dishes, he had ordered his slave to remove his shirt once more. Still very sore from the previous night, Holmes moaned in pain every time the leather touched his skin, though John was far more gentle this time. But Holmes did not shy away from the belt. The man faced the consequences of his actions without a word of protest and rightfully asked for forgiveness after it was done.

Detective Inspector Lestrade gave him a call around midday, and later arrived to pick up the wretched pink suitcase. With John's consent he took Holmes for further questioning of the previous night's events. Sherlock was glad to get out.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked soon after they were in his car.

"He didn't do anything illegal, if that's what you're asking," Sherlock replied. He wasn't fooling even Lestrade with his attempts to hide his soreness. But he wouldn't have any lasting injuries, so there was nothing to be done about it but to accept it. Lestrade couldn't help him, nor would he want to help him. He may have treated him almost like a human being, but the social gap between them was still enormous. Lestrade would never see anything wrong with John or anyone else hurting him so long as it was within the legal boundaries, nor would he hesitate to hurt Sherlock himself.

Sherlock rustled open the plastic bag that had been on the seat as Lestrade went on about what his team knew of previous night's events. As promised, Lestrade had bought him new gloves. They weren't anything as expensive as the ones he had had before, but they were genuine leather, and he was pleased to notice they went far enough to cover his number and barcode. John wouldn't notice the difference.

Lestrade drove him back early in the evening. John had been shopping while he was away –and not just for food. A new item which Sherlock was far too familiar with had been added to his possessions. A rattan cane, one of the most common tools for punishing slaves. Sherlock wasn't surprised in the least. He told himself he wasn't disappointed, either. John had already used a belt on him and it still stung badly. Assuming he was beyond using violence against his slave was laughable.

"How long have you been helping the Yard?" John finally asked him the question that must have been on his tongue ever since Lestrade had showed up to take him. "You seem to know him well."

"It started about ten years ago," Sherlock replied truthfully. He needed to start preparing dinner.

"Why? How did it start?"

He hesitated a moment. It wasn't a secret, but it involved a period of his life he would have rather forgotten altogether.

"I was evidence," he told, but didn't elaborate why. "Turned out my legal owners didn't want me back anymore, so they kept me. After about a year I was auctioned, but I managed to impress Lestrade and help him with his career. It didn't work out with me and my fifth owner, but my sixth owner was... He encouraged me to help the police. So I did."

"Sixth's the one you liked, right?"

"I like all my owners," Sherlock countered instantly. Force of a habit.  _Never_  admit you are anything but loyal. A slave was supposed to love its owners. Disloyalty, showing any kind of resentment towards one's owner was punishable.

"No you don't."

"Of course I do."

John's brows furrowed as he considered him. "Do you like me?" he wanted to know.

"You're my owner.  _I fear, respect, obey and love you_ ," Sherlock quoted instead of giving a proper reply. John was...better than any of his owners before. And oddly enough he did like him. Too much, even. It would've been safer and easier, if he hadn't liked John, if John didn't make him forget what he was.

His owner snorted. "I'm yet to see any of those."

"You strike hard. I know to fear that now," he pointed out. "You treat me well –perhaps better than anyone has ever treated me, and I respect that. You are my master, so naturally I'll obey you best to my ability."

"And love?" John questioned amusedly.

"Y _ou are my world and your wish is my command_. I'd be a fool to admit any kind of disloyalty."

"That you would be," John agreed. "So your sixth owner let you work. What about the seventh?"

Sherlock had no love for his seventh owner. Master Singh was a sadistic man who enjoyed tormenting his slaves.

"Lestrade managed to bribe him to borrow me couple of times, but I haven't worked much with the Yard since 2004 when I was sold to my seventh owner. And then of course... I was sold to Florida."

"Why Florida?" John wondered. "Why were you sold abroad?"

"InS wanted to get rid of me."

"Why?"

"Why?" Sherlock repeated. "They'd already handled my sale four times, I'd gone through seven owners. I'd been penalised for an escape three times and now I'd also attacked my owner. Originally they wanted to put me down. Of course they wanted to get rid of me."

John looked at him long and hard. No matter what Donovan had said, he didn't see a dangerous slave. Holmes was too clever for that. There must have been a good reason for him to risk his life. "Why did you attack your owner?"

"So that he wouldn't have to go to prison."

"Somehow I find it hard to believe you would've cared."

"No, I wouldn't have cared. He could be dead for all I care," Holmes replied with bitter anger. "But it's the official reason. A twelve-year slave keeping ban is better than a prison sentence."

"What about the real reason?"

Holmes sighed and for a moment John feared he would say he should not speak ill of his old masters, but he replied: "My master at the time was a violent man. He took pleasure in inflicting pain upon his property. He bought me because he wanted to tame a troublesome slave. But I never raised my hand against him because of anything he did to me."

"Then why did you attack him?" John asked softly.

"Because he would have killed Trevor." Holmes's fingers curled into fists as he told how his master at the time had repeatedly beaten this one slave. No matter what had happened, no matter who was at fault, this one slave always got the blame. If Holmes, or anyone, had tried to stop him or say Trevor wasn't at fault, it only got worse for everyone involved. Especially Trevor. One time it did go too far, and their master hadn't stopped even after the slave was unconscious.

"I begged for him to stop," Holmes told. "But when he got like that... He didn't see or hear anything. I did the only thing I could think of to stop him. I grabbed the nearest heavy object, I hit him twice and I tied his hands and feet with shoelaces before phoning an ambulance."

 _I could've turned out like that_ , John thought with horror and disgust. His father, when he was drinking, had been like that. He himself had thought it funny to torment that poor slave back in university. Up until it had gone too far. He wished someone would've been there to hit him on the head, too.

"What happened to your friend?"

Holmes looked away. "He was put down. Our master said he wouldn't pay for his treatment. It would've been inhumane to kick him out of the hospital with his injuries."

"I'm sorry," John whispered. Not just for Trevor. For what he could have become. For what he had done.

"Don't be. It's nothing to do with you."

"It won't be like that with me," he promised. "Last night–"

"I know it won't," Holmes cut him. "You'll know when to stop."

John thought of the previous night. Did he know? He had, the moment Holmes had asked him to, but his slave hadn't said a word before that. What if Holmes hadn't pleaded for him to stop?

 _Never again_ , he thought. He wouldn't be like that. Holmes would never have to suffer again because of an unfair, cruel owner.

* * *

Acting according to his threats seemed to have cleared the air between them. There was much less tension now, and John no longer hesitated to discipline his slave. So while Sherlock now got hit more often, it was more bearable, knowing it wouldn't escalate the way it had previously.

They began preparing for the move. John had him pick up empty boxes from the nearby shops. His master didn't own much, and hadn't even unpacked everything since moving in. The doctor's current life until Saturday's murderer chase seemed terribly dull and stationary.

"You know, there's something else I've been wanting to talk about," John began. "About Saturday."

The slave seemed uncertain how to react. "I'm sorry I got you involved," he apologised. "Won't happen again."

John laughed, but it wasn't mocking or belittling. "No. That–that was good. You were right. It was fun."

It was crazy, really. Absolutely mad, and he couldn't yet quite believe he'd spent a night chasing a murderer. And despite nearly losing his slave he had loved it.

Holmes waited for him to continue.

"No, it's not about that. I met someone."

"Pity she didn't agree to go out with you," came a dry reply.

"Very funny. A friend of yours," he corrected. Holmes tensed and turned to look at him with an utterly disturbed expression.

" _A friend_? I don't have any."

"An enemy," John clarified. "What do you mean you don't have friends? What about all your emails then?"

The look on Holmes's face relaxed. "They're more like...acquaintances. Which one?"

"An archenemy, according to his own words. His owner called him...Ma– no, My– something. Wait, " _which one_ "? You have  _enemies_ in plural?"

The slave shrugged nonchalantly. "What did he want?"

"I don't know. He just asked if I had any complaints about you and wanted to meet you."

Holmes grunted disapprovingly. "It's none of his business."

John licked his lips. "I agree. How does he know you? And more importantly,  _how_  does he know I have you? Who owns him?"

"He has his ways... His owner is perhaps the most dangerous person you'll ever meet, but neither of them are my concerns right now."

"They are your concern as a long as they are my concern," John snapped. "Should I be concerned?" he asked bemusedly.

"I don't think she's interested in you," Holmes said, ignoring the fact that John was talking over him: "What do you mean "the most dangerous person"? That woman? Anthea?"

Holmes sighed exasperatedly. "That's the name she uses, yes. And she's  _none of my concern_."

"I wasn't asking if she's  _your_  concern. And her slave called himself your archenemy _._ Doesn't that worry you? Do people even have archenemies?"

"I wouldn't know about people," Holmes evaded.

John rolled his eyes. "Fine, do  _slaves_  have archenemies?"

"Slavers," came the calm reply.

John threw his hands in the air and shook his head in frustration. Clearly Holmes did not want to talk about this. "Forget it. I don't want to fight with you. Just tell me if I should be worried or not."

"You don't need to worry about either of them," Holmes assured. "I doubt she has any interest for you. No offence. But neither really is my business, master. You are."

"I don't buy into that act anymore," John scoffed, but decided to leave the matter. Holmes didn't seem to want to deal with this slave any more than his master did. Which only added to his surprise the next day, when upon returning from his now daily "get away from the slave for a few hours" walk the unnerving slave with a massive collar stood in his flat.

Both slaves turned to look at him, but only the one whose name John couldn't remember greeted him.

"Master Watson. Forgive me for intruding, but seeing my brother was unable to step outside, I let myself in," he spoke, bowing deeply. Holmes sat on the edge of the bed and said nothing.

"He's your–? I mean, you're–you're brothers?" John blinked at the sight. He couldn't see much familial resemblance.

"Yes, of course we are," the slave said, again looking down at him with his unnecessarily large collar. The front curved out a little under his chin and looked like it curved more under his shirt to sit on his chest. It narrowed towards the back where the locking mechanism was, but the front was heavy and wide enough to keep it from turning around. "Didn't he mention?"

"No, no he didn't," John asserted, glancing at his own slave with judgement. "But nor did you."

"What difference does it make?" Holmes's annoyed voice called. "In the eyes of the law, we're not connected in any way."

"The law may not acknowledge us, but you are still a brother to me," the older slave argued.

"So... Basically you wanted to see him because you were worried?" John asked.

"Yes, of course," he confirmed, sounding quite sincerely confused for John having doubted his motivations. "A week ago I didn't even know he was alive."

"Get out, Mycroft," Sherlock barked, jumping to his feet. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. "My master doesn't want you here."

"No, it's alright. You can stay," John assured. "I'm sure you've got some catching up to do. I've nothing against it."

Mycroft smirked at his brother victoriously. Holmes scowled.

"Well surely your mistress is already missing you," he said spitefully. "Beds do get cold quickly."

"And some of them get no warmth whatsoever," Mycroft replied. Holmes's scowl only deepened and John, really not knowing what to say, started considering a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

"However, as much as I would like to take advantage of your master's generous offer, I am on a schedule," Mycroft spoke, perhaps to tactfully retreat to please his brother. He dug into his pocket, then turned to hand John a business card from a metal case. "My mistress's card. Call her, and I shall be disciplined for my intrusion. My brother is not to be blamed. Goodbye, master Watson."

He bowed again, and with a last meaningful glance at Holmes the slave walked out of the flat. Holmes himself was left irritated.

After making himself a large mug of coffee, John returned to the living area to test the waters. He turned around a chair from the desk and sat down. "So... What was that about?"

"Nothing. Mycroft just wants to stick his nose into my life and kiss your arse with pleasantries," Holmes grumbled, lying on the bed again.

"Holmes, you are allowed to see your brother. I've nothing against that."

The slave huffed. "Very generous of you. Master."

"John, call me John when we're alone," he reminded.

"Fine. John."

The fractious mood stuck with the slave for the rest of the day. He seemed to once again be testing his master's nerves, but John was determined to not be affected by it.

"You aren't going to punish me," the slave eventually stated the obvious as they were getting ready for bed.

"Discipline," John corrected his wording. "And no."

"I'd rather you punish me," Holmes said, ignoring the correction. "I didn't have to let him in, but I did. He shouldn't be blamed."

"I wasn't planning on calling Anthea, either," John assured the slave. Or whatever her real name was. He had discreetly compared Anthea's number to the one the woman in the black car had given him. It wasn't same. M didn't seem to be connected to Holmes's brother after all.

But he kept his thoughts to himself. He didn't want to add to his slave's bad mood, nor did he want to worry him. In any case, M hadn't made any further attempts to contact him. Hopefully moving to Baker Street would permanently get them off his back.

* * *

That night Sherlock dreamt of his parents. Of the night they died, the night that had changed everything. Of happier days and Redbeard. Mycroft was there, too, though he was an adult looming over him and Sherlock still a child.

"You're such a disappointment, Sherlock. Never knew when to keep your mouth shut. Mummy and Daddy are  _dead_  because of you."

"I didn't mean to! I just wanted to be smart–"  _Like you._

"You're not smart, Sherlock. You're a stupid, stupid little child. You were always  _so stupid_."

"It wasn't my fault," he argued weakly, burying his face into Redbeard's fur.

"It was my fault," he confessed into the dog's ear. "I didn't mean to, I didn't know–"

The dog was taken away from him. They were pulled apart. Poor Redbeard struggled and fought against the leash, whining miserably. Somehow he knew.

"What are they doing, where are they taking him?" he cried, tugging at his brother's arm. Mycroft turned to look down at him, his face void of any compassion.

"They're going to put him down."

Sherlock woke up into the silent room. His heart was racing, blood rushing in his ears. For a moment it was the only sound he heard before he started registering the sounds of traffic from the streets, the noise the refrigerator made and the steady breathing of his owner across the room.

He couldn't fall asleep again, but he tried not to move in order to not wake his owner. It wouldn't even make much sense to try sleep more. It was early in the morning, and John's alarm would go off within the hour.

Mycroft's words from their conversation swirled around his head.

His brother had arrived entirely unannounced. Sherlock opened the door and then tried to close it right into Mycroft's face the moment he recognised him.

"Your master isn't home?"

"You know he's not. Otherwise you wouldn't have come."

"I might have. He seems agreeable," Mycroft mused, eying the brother he hadn't seen in years. "Come, let's talk elsewhere. I'll treat you a proper meal. You look like you need it."

Sherlock gave Mycroft an equally judging look from head to toe. His brother was certainly well-off for a slave.

"I'm not allowed to leave without permission," he told. Not only a convenient excuse, but also the truth. "Get out."

"How unfortunate," his brother tutted, but didn't back away.

"I suppose we'll have to talk here then," Mycroft said, letting himself in. He stopped in front of the dining table and regarded the room with distaste. "Charming little home you have."

"What do you want?" Sherlock growled. He shut the door with far more force than necessary before following Mycroft further in to the flat. His brother didn't flinch at the noise the door made. It irritated Sherlock to no end. Sudden noises, not necessarily even loud ones, still made him flinch from time to time.

"Is an older brother not allowed to simply want to see his little brother after four years? Let me look at you."

"We're not hugging," Sherlock said instantly, folding his arms and scowling at Mycroft whose eyes were devouring him for information. His brother's expression turned cold.

"I'm not going to hug you, I ought to slap you", Mycroft snarled at him.

"Tragically you cannot because you're not  _my_  head slave." While it was alright for people to hit a slave they didn't own, a slave could not do the same to another slave unless they were specifically ordered to, or were named the head of all the slaves in the house. Which Mycroft was at his mistress's household.

"I begged on the floor for Anthea to buy you." Mycroft's voice was venomous with controlled rage. "Why didn't you let me know you were back?"

"I didn't ask for you to do that," Sherlock replied distastefully, ignoring the question entirely.

"You are my brother," Mycroft stated as if it should have explained everything.

"I am  _not_  your responsibility."

"You'd rather I'd done nothing?"

"I'm none of your business!" Sherlock snarled.

"Sherlock, I thought you were dead!" Mycroft snapped at him. He glared at his brother, then slowly regained his composure. "I didn't expect you to survive, much less ever be back in London."

Silence fell between them, and Sherlock found it hard to look at his brother.

"I didn't expect to survive, either," he admitted. "But I found a distraction and a convenient way to get back."

"So I've come to understand. And I'm immensely grateful for that."

Mycroft stepped closer, and Sherlock didn't pull away when his brother brushed away an errant curl from his face. He wouldn't have admitted it in a thousand years, but it was reassuring to feel his brother's touch.

"It's good to see you in good hands."

"Good to see you're still well fed," Sherlock replied, pushing the hand away. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes for a second as if he were mentally counting to ten. "Has it not occurred to you that I might actually care for you?"

"Whether you care about me or not makes no difference."

His brother's fingers gripped the umbrella tighter and he shook his head slightly, but refused to argue any further with him.

"How is your new master?" he inquired instead.

"You've already met him, I'm sure you already know everything there is to know about him," Sherlock said as he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to evade the topic they were heading to.

"Yes, but how do you get along with him? Will he keep you? I looked into your records at the Institute and you were set to be put down."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He really, really did not want to talk about this. Not with Mycroft, not with anyone. "I know."

"Not just to be put down. You were on an organ donor list."

"I know," Sherlock lied despite he knew he wasn't fooling Mycroft. His brother saw instantly that he hadn't known of the organ donor position. He really should have seen it himself. He was young and healthy. He would have survived multiple operations that'd cannibalise his vital organs and body parts for the free people lying in hospitals waiting for them. He might have ended up a lung or heart donor. He shuddered at the idea of waking up after an operation, perhaps blind and in pain, just waiting to die.

"Then you understand how important it is that Doctor Watson will keep you," Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock didn't answer. Of course he knew. But his brother wouldn't let the subject drop.

"Sherlock, this is serious," he barked. "You'll be killed if he returns you. Please, just this once… Behave. Submit to it.  _Please_  him. You've been given to a decent master who's unlikely to abuse you. Don't ruin it by rebelling."

Sherlock thought of mistress Summers. He had been as agreeable and obedient as it was possible for him to be. Fat load of good that had done to him.

"By being a  _loyal little dog_  like you?" he snarled. "Never."

"It isn't easy for me, either, you know that," his brother sighed. They were both highly proud individuals, and despite spending good twenty years in slavery, it still took Mycroft effort to swallow his pride, bow his head and submit. With Anthea, or rather, Andrea, but only select few were privy to her real name and he himself only ever addressed her as his mistress. With her it was routine, something he didn't spend too much time thinking about, but the people he worked with and met every day... Had he been free, he could have easily been their superior. Now everything he said had to go through Andrea to be taken seriously unless it were the people who worked with him on a daily basis.

Mycroft pushed the thoughts aside with a heavy sigh. "But you know why I'm doing it."

"And you know what I think of it," the younger Holmes countered.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and looked a him with a calculating look for half a second. "I wish you would stop blaming yourself."

"I don't," Sherlock denied immediately. Too quickly. "I merely accept all the facts. We'd be free men if it weren't for me and my– ...big mouth." He was barely able to conceal his grimace at the last words.

 _You and your big mouth._  How often he'd heard those words.  _I'll give it something better to do._

"Well it's your big mouth that's going to make Doctor Watson have you changed for another slave once he's had enough of your bad behaviour and attitude. Sherlock, I'm  _begging_  you. Don't ruin this. He's a good man. With any luck he might even consider emancipating you."

"I'm  _not_  going to beg for it. And you know it can't be done."

"Not yet, no. Unfortunately I'm very well informed of your situation. Which is exactly why you shouldn't waste this."

Sherlock did his best to keep his eyes on Mycroft and his voice level as he voiced the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since his brother had stepped in: "Then why did you offer to buy me?"

Mycroft froze and looked at him with confusion. "I have no power whatsoever to buy you. I have never offered that."

Sherlock swallowed involuntarily, hoping immediately that Mycroft hadn't noticed. If he looked carefully, he could see his own distorted reflection on the polished metal collar around Mycroft's neck. "Someone did."

"When?" Mycroft pressed.

"On Friday."

"Where? How?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know, I wasn't there. John said someone offered him money in exchange for me. I assumed–"

Gears moved in his head. M. Not Mycroft. The fan. Moriarty. M for Moriarty.

Despite he tried to keep the realisation from his brother, Mycroft saw immediately he had come to some kind of a conclusion. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm sure it's nothing," he dismissed.

"Sherlock,  _tell me_ ," he urged. Mycroft would probably have said more, had they not heard John at the door. The arrival of his master had soon sent his brother away.

Despite his words and behaviour, under all the irritation, Sherlock was also relived to have seen Mycroft. Still with the same owner, still fat and well taken cared for for a slave. Had a new collar, though. Still loyal to his mistress. Still trying to stick his nose into Sherlock's life. Moving to Baker Street wouldn't change that, not now that Mycroft had found him.

How he'd done it or why it had taken his brother so long, Sherlock didn't know. But Mycroft had his informants, and sometimes information travelled slow mouth to mouth. Besides, it was hard to find something you weren't looking for. Mycroft hadn't been looking for him, he was sure.

What interested him far more was Moriarty. Who or what was it? Why had they taken such interest towards him? Fan of Sherlock Holmes based purely on the website he could understand, but Moriarty knew he was a slave. How long had Moriarty known of him? Was it a coincidence that Mycroft and Moriarty had found out about him being in London at the same time? He didn't believe in coincidences.

He should have asked how Mycroft had found him. Why now and not a year ago when he was sold back? Must have been because it was InS selling him again. Back then he was officially sold by an American client, despite the fact that InS had handled the sale.

Sherlock pulled aside the blanket, too frustrated to keep lying down. His back was still sore from the beatings, so he rather stood anyway. He got dressed in silence and made his way to the kitchen to silently get the breakfast ingredients ready.

"Morning, John," he called, switching on the kitchen lights after the alarm clock went off. John seemed surprised to see him up already, but retreated to the bathroom while his slave prepared the breakfast.

"How come I didn't need to be kicking you awake today?" John asked as he sat down to the table. His coffee was already waiting for him.

"Couldn't sleep," Sherlock admitted. "No reason."

John hummed and sipped his coffee. Just the way he liked it. "So. Your brother's a slave, too?" he inquired, trying to strike a conversation.

Sherlock set down his master's breakfast. "Clearly."

"How did that happen?" he prompted, digging into his eggs.

Sherlock fetched his own share of the breakfast. "Our parents died and we had no place to go."

"How did they die?" John asked as he sat down. Not demandingly. Just curiously.

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. I'm just curious about you."

Sherlock hesitated a moment before replying: "Car crash," he said as indifferently as he could. "My father steered the car on the wrong lane. Three people died."

"Your parents and..?"

"A passenger in the car we hit."

"We?" John echoed. "So you were in the car, too?"

"I was," he admitted, but didn't elaborate further. It only served to increase John's curiosity.

"Were you hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Back seat. Just minor injuries."

Mummy had died instantly when the car hit the door on her side. Daddy was still alive, just barely, when Mycroft despite his fractured fibula had helped Sherlock out of the car through its shattered back window. His father had died before the rescuers cut him out. He didn't remember much of it.

"What about your brother? Was he there, too?"

"Same as me."

"I'm sorry," his master offered after a while of uncomfortable silence.

"It was a long time ago."

"But you–"  _wouldn't be a slave if it hadn't happened_. But John never voiced the thought. It would’ve only been a cruel reminder. Sad as it may have been, Holmes was now a slave. His slave. If a child had nowhere to go, it was only right to give such child a meaningful life. As a slave, such child would be taken care of, and would have a purpose in life.

"No, you're right," he said. "All in the past."

His slave nodded and they ate a while in silence, until John opened his mouth again: "Mycroft. There's a name you don't hear every day."

The slave shrugged. "He prefers it to Myc –or Fatty."

"Fatty?" John repeated confusedly, but shook his head and let it go. "Is it his birth name?"

Holmes hesitated a moment before replying, then probably realised the hesitation alone was enough of an answer. "Yes."

"So he decided to go by his first name, whereas you..?"

"Decided to go by the name my first owner gave me," Holmes completed firmly. Clearly not a topic he wanted to approach. "That, or whatever else my owner chooses. And Mycroft didn't choose to go by that name. His owner did."

"What if I chose I'd like to call you by your real name?"

"Whatever you choose  _is_  my real name," Holmes countered. He turned his hand to show the stigma on his wrist. "If anything is my real name, then this is it. The person I was before this is  _dead_."

"So you don't want to tell me."

"Why does it matter to you?"

John shrugged. "I guess it doesn't. Why Holmes, though?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. Ask my first mistress, she chose it."

"Fine, keep your secret," John gave up, rolling his eyes. "Like you said, that ID is your true name now."

Although he was curious, there really was nothing John could do to make Holmes reveal the name he was born with, if he wanted to keep it a secret. Not even InS should have records of it. The moment a free person was enslaved for life they ceased to exist. There would be no official connection between the person they were and the slave they would become. It was easier for the families as well. Officially the person enslaved was dead, or in some cases, they had never existed at all. Holmes had been young, so there was a possibility he had never existed as a free person. Or he had perished among with his parents.

"What's with your brother's, er, his collar?" he asked instead of pursuing the topic of his slaves original name. "It's… Well it's enormous."

Holmes huffed amusedly. "Yes, it's larger than the one he wore the last time I saw him. It's a punishment."

"For what?"

"I don't know." Holmes got up and gathered the dishes as he spoke: "Probably he let someone think he's not a slave. I'm not the only one who does that."

They had discussed about Mycroft's collars in the past. Or rather, Sherlock had made a snide comment about them, and Mycroft had scowled at him.

"I'm wearing this ridiculous collar because people keep mistaking me for a free man. I'll have the word "slave" tattooed on my forehead if that's what it takes to stop that from happening."

He probably would go that far without a word of protest if his mistress wanted it. Mycroft took his position far more seriously than Sherlock did. He ranked highest among the four slaves his mistress owned. Being a head slave and in his mistress's favour gave him actual privileges, like more freedom to move around as he wanted. Not that he did. Mycroft was not only a head slave and a bed slave, he was also a slave to his habits. He rarely did anything outside his routines unless ordered to. And he had the advantage of being able to almost always send another slave in his stead.

His other "privileges" were to get to sleep in the master bedroom, fulfil his mistress's sexual needs and discipline the other slaves. Not a place Sherlock ever wanted to find himself in. Considering that he was the only slave for now, and likely to always be the newest slave in the house should John rent or sell him was a guarantee he was unlikely to ever become a head slave. He did not want to be put in a situation where it would be his duty to hit other slaves. Growing up, he had always resented the slaves who would beat their fellow slaves, even if it wasn't their choice.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. "Yes, John?"

"Are you alright? You just sort of...stood there."

Sherlock turned to look at John who had, unnoticed by him, walked into the kitchen. He looked down at his hands, still holding at the edges of the plates he had brought to the counter by the sink.

"Yes. Just thinking."

"Of what? How to best wash the dishes? With soap, I hope."

"Very funny," the slave huffed. He opened the tap for hot water and moved the plates and cutlery in the sink. John stood watching him for a while, occasionally sipping his coffee.

"Say, you and your brother," he started. Sherlock sighed inwardly, having hoped they were past the subject already. "You don't see each other very often, do you?"

"Once a week for fish and chips. No, of course we don't."

"He said he thought you were dead."

"He had a good reason to believe it. He knew I was sold to America."

Being a slave in America was far more dangerous than being a slave in Britain or Europe in general. With such loose laws for both slave keeping and guns, a slave shot to death wasn't an unusual crime. Depending on the state it wasn't even a crime to kill a slave. In Florida it had been illegal to kill a house slave, but not a worker slave owned by a business.

"What about before that?" John wanted to know. Based on some of the stories he'd heard, he was impressed that a slave like Holmes had survived on the other side of the Atlantic.

"My owner before that rarely let me out of the house. Like I told you, Lestrade managed to borrow me a few times, but that was it."

"What about the ones before that? Did they let you out, let you see your brother?"

"I don't go see him," Holmes replied. "He's the one who keeps pestering me."

"Why are you so hostile about him?"

"He's annoying," Holmes said, but there was a touch of warmth to his tone that made John suspect he wasn't truly as hateful towards Mycroft as he pretended to be.

John shrugged and handed his empty mug for Holmes to wash. "Seems alright to me. You could learn a few things from him. He seems much more well behaved."

"He believes he has to behave," Holmes muttered as he started to scrub the permanent coffee stains on the mug.

"And you don't?"

Holmes paused as if to decide whether he wanted to reply or not. Then his posture relaxed and he resumed scrubbing the mug. "Not to the same extent, no. I'm not under a contract.

"He'll be emancipated?" John questioned surprisedly.

"When he's sixty and only if he serves his mistress acceptably," his slave replied. He managed to say it as if the idea appalled him.

John chuckled. "I see. You're jealous because–"

"I'm not," Holmes interrupted him. "I wouldn't sign that contract even if I could."

"Why?" John asked confusedly. He would have thought a slave so eager for freedom would have jumped at the opportunity.

"Because it's only an agreement for impeccable behaviour with a hope that you'll be freed at the end of it, when in reality the master can use a tiniest fault to nullify the contract. It's just a ruse get us salves behave."

"No it's not," John exclaimed in outrage. "It's an extremely kind gesture from the owner. A slave, even a freed one, doesn't have anything. They wouldn't have a place to go and hardly any means to function in the society as a person. An owner who frees a slave must take it as a protégé for years to come. That's why most emancipated slaves marry their owner."

"Like I said, a ruse", Holmes huffed. "Marrying their owner is just another form of slavery. Being a protégé is just another form of slavery. Emancipated slaves are rarely young and likely to die before they can pay back their debts to their owners."

"People don't just marry their slaves unless they love them. They want to make it legal and equal." Surely no one would marry a slave unless they truly loved it like a person. The idea was absurd.

"Or they just want to make the child legal and equal," Holmes countered.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, just admit it. You're grumpy because with all your escape attempts you lost your rights to plead for emancipation. If you hadn't messed up, you'd still have a way out."

"A slave has a far better chance of freedom by escaping than by signing that contract. My brother is a fool."

"Says the slave who tried and  _failed_  to escape," he pointed out. "Four times."

"Three times," Holmes insisted this time as well. "I've learnt my lesson. I won't try again. But I still wouldn't sign a contract."

"I bet you would, if you could."

"Tell me then,  _master_ , how many emancipated slaves do you know?"

"Well, none, but... Surely there are some."

"The contract is nothing, but false hope to get slaves behave. The owner can back away from it ridiculously easily. Disobeying even once can be used as an excuse for the owner to call it off. No one truly wants to free their slave."

John didn't know how to respond. It was probably true, after all. Holmes misinterpreted his silence.

"You don't believe me," he stated. "Let's make a simple test then. If you could free me, right now, would you?"

"Well..." John began uneasily. Right now? Holmes didn't really deserve to be freed, now did he? And he still needed his slave.

"See? You wouldn't. I don't blame you. If our roles were reversed, had I always been free, I wouldn't give a toss about your rights, either. I'd use you and I wouldn't care if you got hurt."

"Good thing you don't need to worry about that then," John said. "Good for your brother."

Holmes didn't reply and they didn't talk about his brother or freeing slaves again. He behaved well that week. Whether it was because of Lestrade's influence or because he'd met his brother, John didn't know. Perhaps it was just that he was busied and thrilled by their move to Baker Street. It added to his good mood that his commuting pass was ready.

John met up with his rugby mates again. One of them even offered to come help with the upcoming move with his van. Day before the actual move, John took his slave to InS to have his chip updated with for commuting rights. He still didn't have a permission to carry money, but John was glad to finally be able to get Holmes a slave version of an Oyster card. It made using the Tube and the buses a lot easier.

John's rugby pal and his slave arrived a little late on Saturday, but with the four of them they managed to empty John's flat of everything he was keeping or didn't come with the rent. Mrs Hudson's young slave was excited for the new tenant and his slave, and Billy helped with the boxes far more eagerly than Holmes did. Considering he had a slave, John wouldn't have even needed to carry the boxes himself, but it was quicker with his help. And truth to be told, he was happy to do it now that he didn't need his cane. It was incredible. Ella and Holmes had been right. There was nothing wrong with his leg. He supposed he had Holmes and his mad behaviour to thank for that.

The first few days at their new home passed with slowly unpacking everything. Holmes was the one largely doing it, and he insisted on putting all his clothes in some specific order John didn't understand. He wouldn't have cared for colour coding his shirts, but he left Holmes to it after being frantically told multiple times that no, that particular jumper couldn't go there because of its pattern.

It gave John more time to try to sort out things in his life. He cancelled his appointments with Ella, and sent out a few more job applications. Three days after the move he received an acceptance letter for Holmes's permission to use and carry money, or use John's card. It meant a new trip to InS headquarters for a chip update in two days time. With that done, John could dump the responsibility over shopping to Holmes as well. All in all, despite everything, life seemed pretty good for the first time since returning to London.

For Sherlock February the 10th came and went, marking the beginning of his 23rd year as a slave. He didn't think of it much. Two days later, 12th marked the anniversary of the auction that sold him for the first time. Lying on his mattress he spared a thought for his brother. He hadn't sought him out, hadn't said anything to John. Before sleep took him, he murmured under his breath.

"Happy birthday, Mycroft."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you have a moment to spare, please leave a comment and let me know of your thoughts. I'd like that. :)
> 
> EDIT: I once said to someone in the comments, but I probably should say it here, too: "Things will get worse before they get better, and then they'll get worse again before getting better." Things have now gone worse. They've only known each other for a few weeks by the end of this chapter. Slow build.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter seemed to stir a lot of feelings. I did think it might, but I was surprised by the amount of really well-thought and intelligent comments I got. Thank you very much. It’s a joy to read your comments and get to talk with you guys. I’m a little overwhelmed, but very, very happy for the interest and varying opinions. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

Life rarely goes the way one imagines it would. No matter who you were when you were born, unthinkable things can happen. Sometimes life turns out better than you would have ever imagined, but sometimes... Sometimes it can go horribly wrong. Small things can turn into bigger ones, the tiniest details can determine the reality around you and turn it upside-down. The most innocent, well meant words can bring forth hell.

Sherlock had no memory of what those exact words had been. It wouldn't have mattered even if he had. But he remembered Mycroft's attempt to shut him up, remembered the details he'd noticed and put together like a puzzle. He had not wanted to humiliate his father and certainly not cause suffering to his mother. He just stated the fact that was now clearly obvious to him and yet no one else seemed to have noticed.

How angry she had been. Not mad at him, no. She was the only one defending him. He had never seen such disappointment in Mycroft's eyes before. Never seen such hatred in his father's.

Mummy and Daddy had never fought like that. It was New Year's Eve, and for now the other people around them preparing to welcome the new year were still oblivious to the prelude of a tragedy midst them. A New Year's party wasn't a place for a child. Sherlock had been dreadfully bored despite the host's slave trying to keep him and other children company. Mycroft, being so much older and smarter, followed around their parents.

Sherlock never meant to make his parents fight. He just wanted to impress them. Mycroft seemed to know half the people present, so he just wanted to show them that he, too, could point out people from the crowd. What he did not quite understand was why they all fell so silent when he pointed out the young cellist, who clearly was good friends with Daddy. Mycroft clearly had known of her, too. Sherlock just had wanted to be the first one to say it.

Mummy and Daddy began arguing in hushed tones, and the moment their tones reached the point they started to attract attention they both left the hall.

"You idiot," Mycroft cursed, pulling him away. "Stupid child, don't you know when to keep your mouth shut?"

Sherlock didn't understand at all what he'd done wrong, not even when Mycroft crouched down to his level in an empty corridor and explained. Mummy found them some forty minutes later. "Get your coats, boys. We're going home. Your father's already left to get the car."

"But Mummy, what about the fireworks?" The fireworks were the one thing Sherlock had been anxiously waiting for all night.

"You'll have plenty of opportunities to see those some other time."

It was by far the most awkward car ride ever for Mycroft and the most miserable one for Sherlock. Father was stoic and silent, mostly, and let their mother yell at him. It took a lot of prompting from her to get him say anything, but when he finally did, the fight only escalated. Later, Sherlock would remember the absolute disgust and loath dripping from her tongue. "You repel me," she'd said.

Once they realised Sherlock was silently sobbing, it made the matters even worse. So much so that eventually Mummy reached out to slap her husband.

Everything was bit of a blur after that. He remembered the loud noise, the bang when the car hit them. He remembered the seatbelt pressing against him as they spun around.

For long seconds it was eerily quiet once the car stopped upside-down. Then Sherlock began crying.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Are you alright?"

Mycroft called for him, fumbling to get himself free. Sherlock remembered nothing of Mycroft helping him out of the car. The first clear memory of the aftermath he had was the field. He stood on frozen field, watching the sparks flying in the air as the power saw cut through the frame of the car. It lay on its roof, trapping his parents inside. Daddy had steered the car on the opposite lane, and a car had hit the left side of their's.

Mummy was dead. That much he knew. Daddy was bleeding, but he'd still been conscious when the rescuers came, and he and Mycroft were pulled away from the car. The front seat passenger of the other car was dead, too. She hadn't been wearing a seat belt. She'd flown right through the windshield and splattered head first to the road. The driver was in bad shape, but already taken away by the first ambulance. Mycroft lay strapped on stretchers, ready to be taken to the ambulance. Something was wrong with Mycroft's leg. They both had bruises and cuts from the glass, but apart from that Sherlock was unharmed.

Daddy died before he was cut out of the car. When the midnight came, the horizon was lit by fireworks.

A family slave picked them up from the hospital early in the morning. All the four slaves they had did their best to help Mycroft with funeral arrangements, but Mycroft had no time to grieve. A far bigger problem presented itself. They were left orphaned with no close relatives or family friends to step in to take care of them. While their slaves would have been more than capable of taking care of them, they were slaves and thus not eligible. He considered freeing one of them for the sole purpose of getting a guardian, but as it turned out a minor could not free a slave. Nor could an ex-slave become the legal guardian to his master, since it was the master’s responsibility to help his former slave to begin a new life.

The enormity of the situation never dawned upon Sherlock until an official from the local branch of Great British Institute of Slavery knocked on their door. They spoke with Mycroft in Mummy's office, but Sherlock knew the best spot for eavesdropping. If the local authorities and Mycroft couldn't find them legal guardians by the end of the month, InS would step in. They'd be handed over and sold into slavery, and their home and slaves and all property would be lost to them.

Mycroft did his best, yet by the end of January they were still no closer to finding anyone, even though on Sherlock's tenth birthday on the 6th the house had been full of flowers and cards of condolences for their loss. There was little to celebrate, when they'd attended a funeral just a day before. No one but them and their slave were present. Mummy and Daddy had been buried, and neither Mycroft or Sherlock returned to school. February the 10th was their deadline. The local authorities seemed to have no interest in their case apart from the fact that once they were enslaved their property and lands would fall in the hands of the county.

Sherlock remembered accompanying Mycroft to the local branch of InS to plead for their case. The office was cold and grey like the weather outside. The man they talked to was much the same.

"This is an unfortunate situation..." the man mumbled, fingers pinching the frames of his glasses. They were so large they seemed to cover most of his small face. "You have no guardians. No one has stepped forward. If you were seventeen you might be able to become your brother's legal guardian, but as for now you're too young. I'm sorry. Unless someone offers to foster you by Tuesday you'll become The Institute's property."

There was uncharacteristic urgency to Mycroft's voice: "No, please. I'm seventeen on 12th. It's just two days. I can take care of him. Please, there must be something that can be done."

"I'm sorry young man, but I cannot help you," the InS official said, shaking his balding head. Pityingly, yet firmly. "The waiting period in cases like yours is a month. That's 31 days and not a day over. You already got extra days because of the holidays. The line has to be drawn somewhere."

"There has to be something that can be done," Mycroft insisted.

The man rustled his papers, clearly trying to let them know the conversation was over. "If your future owner chooses to free you after you've turned eighteen, you can contact the Institute and apply to become your brother's guardian. But even that would require you to first purchase him. Until then there's nothing to be done."

Sherlock looked at his brother from the other side of the room. It wasn't in his nature to be scared easily, but he now felt a cold, twisting lump in his stomach. He wasn't as smart as Mycroft, but he wasn't stupid by any means. He knew well what this meant. And he realised that Mycroft could not help them.

On the morning of 10th Sherlock knew it could very well be the last time he ever saw his brother. It would be the last time he'd see his home. He spent the morning half heartedly playing in the snow with Redbeard. The dog, oblivious to the impending doom, was the only thing that had made him smile since the New Year's Eve. Mycroft, in his desperation, had turned to the last possible source and sat indoors, phoning every single person he could think of they hadn't reached out to yet, begging for them to help. When he ran out of even vaguely familiar people, he began picking numbers from the phone book by random. Sherlock entertained himself a while by flipping through the pages and pointing out people: "They have a nice name. Call them."

But Mycroft knew it was all in vain. He didn't care for himself much at this point, but if he could just spare Sherlock from the life of slavery... He himself hardly deserved anything better. He'd never seen anything wrong with slavery. All his life he'd looked down on slaves, thought of them as lesser beings. It had never crossed his mind it could happen to him. He didn't feel guilty for how he'd treated them or for how he'd seen them. This changed nothing. Slavery was still needed and slaves  _were_  lesser beings. Him becoming one didn't change that. He'd spoken long with Stewart, their head slave, about what it would mean for him and Sherlock to be enslaved. If any of their family slaves felt this was justice, then they were doing a fine job hiding it. More than anything, they seemed to pity the brothers. Their yard slave Spruce was enraged that this would happen to the family he had served his entire life.

Cars arrived soon after they'd eaten what Saffron, their kitchen slave, had almost forced them to eat. "You won't be getting food this good at InS. Eat," he'd said.

Mycroft, determined to stand tall till the very end, welcomed the officials and ordered the slaves to take their coats and offer them drinks. Sherlock had never been so scared in his life as he watched the strangers invade their home.

"What about Redbeard?" Sherlock cried. "Where will he go? Who's gonna take care of him?"

"Don't worry, Sherlock. We'll look after him," his nanny consoled him. She was a woman in her mid-thirties, a daughter of a late house slave of the Holmes family. Even her great-grandparents had been owned by the Holmes family, and she had taken care of Sherlock since he'd been born.

"But they're taking you away, too."

"He'll come with us then."

"Don't lie to him, Sandy," Mycroft chided tensely.

"Master, he's just a child!" she argued. A month ago Mycroft would've slapped her for talking back. Today it didn't feel appropriate.

"What? What are they gonna do?" Sherlock asked frantically, eyes wide in alarm.

"Master, don't—" Sandy pleaded, but Mycroft cut her off. He wasn't about to sugarcoat any of this to Sherlock.

"They're going to put him down, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth opened in protest and his wide eyes filled with tears. "No! No, they can't! They can't kill him! You can't take him!"

"Hold him," Mycroft ordered Sandy. "Don't let him cause any trouble when someone comes for the dog."

Mycroft disappeared into Mummy's office among with the strangers who would soon take them away. Sherlock stayed with Redbeard until they came to take him away. Sandy tore him away from the dog and held him with all her strength as he kicked and clawed to get himself free. Redbeard barked and fought against his leash.

"Please, stop! Think of Redbeard," she tried to reason with him. "It's inevitable and you're making this harder for him."

"Boy, if you calm down I'll let you pet him one more time before we'll go," the man from animal control promised.

Sherlock stopped struggling instantly. Sandy let go and he ran to hug his friend. "I'm sorry," he sobbed quietly into the dog's ear. "It's all my fault."

He didn't fight when Sandy gently pulled him away. They watched through the window how Redbeard was loaded into a car and taken away. She pulled him into a tight embrace.

"They might find Redbeard a new home, too," she tried. "Please don't cry, Sherlock."

"What about you? Why can't we stay with you?"

"I'm just a slave, Sherlock. InS will find me a new owner, too. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine. Just take care of yourself. Be good to your owners."

Their slaves had already packed their own belongings as well as chosen some clothes for the brothers. They wouldn't be allowed more than they could fit into duffle bags handed to them, but whatever they took would legally belong to them. Once all the paperwork was done, they didn't have much time to pack and choose. A lady from InS urged them to take only what they really needed and wanted to keep. Clothes, shoes, maybe a photograph or some small mementos. She probably assumed a child such as Sherlock would take a toy or two for comfort. Instead he abandoned third of his clothes to fit in his father's antique violin, case and all, even though it was still a little too large for him to play.

While the InS members grumbled, later on, sitting at the back of a car on their way to the InS headquarters in London, Mycroft smiled at him. "Well thought, Sherlock."

To InS it presented a strange dilemma. Many slaves legally owned small things, but usually nothing to this scale. Whatever the instrument's true value was, it belonged to Sherlock now and would not add up to his future owner's wealth. It could affect a little to the price Sherlock would be sold at, but ultimately it had become worthless. Technically it could be worth enough for Sherlock to buy his freedom some day, but as a slave, he would be unable to sell it. Or rather, he could sell it, but he could not own money. If he were to sell it, he would have to trust the good will of his owner. Many would just take an advantage of the situation, keep the money and keep the slave, for legally it didn't bind the owner to do a thing.

It was evening by the time they arrived, but InS, as they soon learnt, never slept. It may have been past the opening hours, but the building was very much alive. The slave rights were quickly read to them, and then they had their stigmas, a series of numbers and letters, tattooed in their left wrists to mark their new position. It hurt, perhaps worse than it really did because of how terrifying the whole process was for Sherlock. Mycroft stayed stoically still and allowed it to be done, but the tattooer took one look at Sherlock and had him strapped to the table. With that Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were gone. In their place were slaves 99OR-79/4J4B and 99OR-79/3J3A.

They had to strip all their clothes for medical examination, and they took Mycroft to a separate room at his request. At the time Sherlock thought it was because of his leg. Only much later in life did it dawn upon him that it had been because Mycroft wished not to speak of his sexual performance in front of his little brother, or have him witness the related physical examinations. They were interviewed for what felt like forever. They had to answer endless questions about their educations, skills and hobbies to determine what they might be useful for. Mycroft did most of the talking. How he remained so calm and civil was a mystery. Sherlock did his best to mimic him, but he hated everything and everyone. He missed Mummy and Daddy. He missed Redbeard and he missed Sandy.

They were left with a slave who showed them how to properly bow, stand, kneel and kowtow. Only Sherlock had to try them, while Mycroft with the cast on his leg got to watch. The slave spoke about rules, but Sherlock only pretended to listen. They had to repeat a version of the slave oath. He'd heard their own slaves recite it on few occasions. Then he was led away, while the slave would talk some more with Mycroft. He was sent to a shower, a long corridor he had to walk through as wall-mounted shower heads poured cool water and soap on him.

He shivered from cold when they locked him alone in an empty room, but to his relief Mycroft was brought in soon after. The holding cell was small, had nothing but bare, white walls, a sink, a toilet and a bunk bed on each side of the walls. There were no windows and the only light came from a dim lamp above them. Mycroft supposed they were lucky to get to share the the room with no one else in it. And at least they were allowed to stay together.

The first night was miserable. Sherlock climbed to the top bunk and fell asleep within minutes, but Mycroft lay awake for what felt like hours. He had kept his emotionless mask in place, but he had never felt so helpless in his life. There was nothing he could do to save his brother or himself. What good were his intellectual abilities, when none of it could get them out of this situation? He must have dozed off at some point for the next time he opened his eyes, Sherlock shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Mycroft. There's food."

They ate their lumpy bowls of porridge in silence. It was likely to be the only meal they were to receive today. The slave rights clearly stated that a slave had the right to be fed the minimum of six meals a week. Mycroft doubted the Centre would go for anything more than seven meals a week per perso– slave.

Sherlock quickly grew restless in the plain room that offered him so little to do. They were both briefly occupied by making deductions of the previous lodgers and Sherlock entertained himself by playing pirates in the top bunk. Mycroft humoured him by acting as a sea monster. But nothing held Sherlock's interest for long.

"Myc, I'm bored," his little brother's voice came form the top bunk. "And hungry."

"I know," Mycroft sighed. He wasn't feeling exactly entertained himself, either.

"I miss Redbeard."

"I know."

Sherlock went silent for a little while before voicing something they both had been thinking, but that neither had yet brought up. His voice was quiet, almost too quiet for Mycroft to have heard, hadn't he known what Sherlock was saying. "They won't sell us together."

Mycroft closed his eyes, leaning his chin against his fingertips. "No, no they won't. They'll get us sold for a higher price if we are separated."

"I don't want that." Sherlock sounded like he was at the verge of tears.

"Neither do I," Mycroft agreed silently. For all his cleverness, Sherlock was still just a frightened little boy about to lose the last remaining person he was familiar with. And Mycroft couldn't feign much courage at the moment, either, but for Sherlock's sake he had to try. For Sherlock's sake he had to submit to this immediately, so that Sherlock would see his example and hopefully manage to adjust to his new life better.

It was hard not to imagine what would happen to them after the auction. He himself was fortunate to be old enough to be sold as a regular house slave. The idea of tending to someone like an old lady with an army of little dogs revolted him, but it'd be better than the remote chance of being sold to sex industry. His calm and polite manners should ensure him house slavery. It was the best option for him. His overweight build thankfully wasn't what most people looked for in a bed slave. What he was far more concerned about was Sherlock.

If Sherlock got lucky, somebody rich enough would buy him to keep company for their children, though Mycroft could see hundreds of ways that would end up leading to a catastrophe. But the unfortunate fact was that the children of Sherlock's age were wanted products on the industrial field. They were small and had deft fingers useful for assembling small parts. Anything that said "handmade" was likely done by a slave. That, too, could only end badly for Sherlock. Thank goodness he was too young to be legally sold to sex industry, so Mycroft needn't worry over that.

There was nothing in the room to measure time with. The lone lamp in the ceiling stayed dim, never becoming brighter nor turning off. The door opened only twice: to let in a slave to tend their stigmas, and to let the slave out. They both knew it was likely to be their last day together, but they spent it mainly in silence, both of them lying in their beds, lost in thought. Mycroft was already asleep when Sherlock climbed to his bed, nestling his skinny being against him.

"Myc," his brother whimpered quietly.

"Shh..." he hushed gently, pulling his arms around Sherlock, who first tensed at the touch, but soon relaxed and pressed his cheek against Mycroft's chest.

They didn't need to say anything. There was nothing to be said or done to change their fates. Mycroft had no reassuring words to offer that wouldn't have been lies. He didn't say it would be alright because nothing was alright. Neither of them needed comforting, fabricated tales or promises when the truth was so painfully obvious.

"Sherlock," he eventually said as calmly as he could. "Tomorrow when you're being sold–"

"I don't want to be sold," Sherlock interrupted grumpily.

"I know. But it will happen whether we want or not."

"I'll make sure  _no one_ wants to buy me."

" _No_ ," he replied frantically, pulling himself to sit on the bed. "Sherlock, whatever you do, you  _must_  get yourself sold."

"No," his brother replied stubbornly. "I don't want to be a slave, I don't want anyone to buy me!"

"If no one buys you, what do you think will happen? You won't be freed. You'll be sold to a factory in a batch. Do you want that?"

Sherlock rolled on his stomach and stayed rebelliously silent.

"Sherlock, please, listen. Don't try to be clever. You  _have to_  get yourself a good owner. Be nice. Do everything you can to seem moderately intelligent, but  _do not_  be clever. Do your best to seem obedient and loyal. Don't argue with or defy the auctioneers."

Sherlock didn't move, but huffed an angry reply: "I won't be a slave!"

"Don't be childish, Sherlock. You have no choice. Neither of us has. We are already slaves."

His brother got up to leave, but Mycroft grabbed his left wrist. "Look at this. This is what we are now. This number here is now your name. There's no escaping this now. Don't make things worse for yourself."

Sherlock wrenched himself free and escaped to the top bunk without a word.

They were served their final meal together at what seemed like early morning. The auction would begin at ten in the morning, but neither knew at what point they would be taken to the hall. Mycroft had been to a smaller scale slave market once. The slaves had been arranged in groups by age and sex or sometimes by their skills. He had heard the Greater London Slave Auction to be held in a separate building with large halls where the slaves would be arranged by age. They might have to stand for hours, enduring how people looked at them like they were objects ( _We are objects_ , Mycroft had to remind himself. Thinking anything else would have been hypocritical of him.) and waiting, even hoping, for someone to buy them.

They came for Mycroft first.

"99OR-79/4J4B, three minutes to strip. We start by filling the auction hall A." His bag was thrown in and the door closed again.

Sherlock watched in silence as Mycroft stripped everything off swiftly in silence and neatly folded his clothes in to the bag. He didn't know what to do or say, either. How could Mycroft be so calm when he felt like exploding? His eyes burned with tears he didn't want to shed. He hated this,  _hated_.

Mycroft took support from the bed to sit down. He wasn't allowed his crutches in the cell. Yet they gave him a razor for shaving. He beckoned Sherlock to him with a grim expression. His brother came, and he took Sherlock's shoulders in his hands and looked his little brother straight in the eye.

"Sherlock, do not give your name to your owners. It's the only thing you really have. Do not let them have your real name. And whatever happens, I need you to promise me one thing."

Sherlock did not reply.

" _Don't_  give your owners a reason to discipline you. You need to promise me, Sherlock. Promise me you'll behave."

He couldn't look his big brother in the eye. He knew he couldn't promise that.

Mycroft's fingers gripped him harder. "Please, Sherlock, this isn't a game. We are going to be sold, we are slaves now. You have to–" Mycroft cut himself off abruptly when a loud bell rang somewhere in the corridor. Mycroft pulled him into a tight embrace unlike anything he'd ever shared with his brother before. Sherlock's initial reaction was to pull away, but Mycroft only held him closer, his naked chest feeling warm against Sherlock's face. After a few dragging seconds that seemed to last forever he returned the embrace awkwardly. His hands wouldn't properly reach around Mycroft's body. In any other situation he would have cruelly teased his overweight elder brother, but now the thought didn't even cross his mind. His hug was clumsy at first, but soon he was clinging onto Mycroft for the dear life of his.

"I just wanna go home," Sherlock whimpered.

"We'll never go home again," Mycroft replied. "But I promise you, Sherlock," he said, his voice hoarse and cracking at his name, "I will get you out of this. I  _will_  have you freed."

Sherlock nodded despite understanding how empty such promises were. He thought Mycroft was about to say something more or maybe he himself ought have said something instead, but neither of them ever had the chance to do so. The door was opened again and when Mycroft failed to obey the first order to take his bag and join the crowd in the corridor, he received a painful blow from the floor guard's baton to his shoulder. And that was the last Sherlock saw of him. He was dragged out mercilessly and the door was locked again. Suddenly all the noises from the corridor seemed to dissolve into the loud sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Sherlock had never felt so alone. Too late he realised he hadn't even wished Mycroft a happy birthday. Not that it was a very happy one.

When the floor guards came for him half an hour later, Sherlock had climbed to the far end of the top bunk, refusing to come down, fighting tooth and nail against them. The clothes had to be ripped off of him and he was dragged kicking and screaming down the corridor to the lifts where he was unceremoniously thrown with the the other slaves and his bag thrown with him -and that was what snapped him out of his fit. He cradled the bag and its fragile contents against him. He was the only slave in the lift owning anything.

The child slaves were ushered to hall C where their feet were chained to the floor next to makeshift walls that divided the hall into orderly paths. Documents matching the numbers on his wrist were pinned on the wall behind him and he was ordered to let go of his bag. He didn't need to give it away, just leave it untouched next to him.

Hall C was farthest away from the main entrance, forcing the people to come through other halls. It was also considerably smaller than the others, containing only slaves between ages five and twelve. They had been arranged by sex and age, so Sherlock knew he was situated between other boys of his age, but he could not see them behind the walls. Some of the youngest ones were crying loudly whereas the older ones he had seen shedding tears were weeping in silence. But mostly the elder children were quiet, uncomfortable with their position as being items on sale, but comfortable with their fate as a slave.

Sherlock did not cry. When the auction opened and the people began to pour in he made nasty deductions of anyone who dared to come close. He was hit several times by the auctioneers in order to silence him, but it didn't work for long.

He and the others near him were kept on display long into afternoon. Sherlock fought again and tried to run when he was released to be taken to the actual auction stage. Other slaves tried to hush him and calm him down. Their anxious, almost frightened state of mind was catching, and when it finally was Sherlock's turn to step forward to be auctioned he could only stand there like a deer in headlights. The room was full of people, all eyes were on him. Slaves wearing InS uniforms led him forward, made him turn around and kept an eye on him as the bidding began.

He was sold quickly. Soon him and the others were taken back to wait for their new owners to collect them. A man came for him and he was finally allowed to dress while the auctioneer watched him very closely. A collar was tightened around his neck, not tight enough to hurt him, but tight enough for him to feel uncomfortable every time he swallowed. He hugged his bag as he was led away in a leash. The crossed the hall A, but no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he couldn't see Mycroft anywhere in the crowd. He was forced to follow the man outside with no shoes, no coat, no nothing but the shirt and trousers InS had given him. The ground was so cold he didn't resist at all being ordered to climb in the passenger seat of a van (roofs and insulations it said on the doors). He panicked when the man took his bag, but his new owner tugged at the leash, telling him to calm down. He would only put the bag behind the seats. Sherlock considered running then and there, but the man must have thought the same for he looped the leash around the headrest, forcing Sherlock to stay back against the seat or he'd strangle himself with the collar. Soon the man started the noisy car and drove him away, leaving InS and his previous life far, far behind.

What Sherlock didn't know was that after the auction was over and all the people had left, Mycroft was returned to their cell alone. The cast around his leg and the general appearance of him had chased away the buyers. As embarrassing as it had been to stand naked on the stage, it had been even worse to have no one bid for him. During all the time he had stood,  _stood_  with his cast on display, only six people had stopped to seriously ask about him. Despite his injury and overweight his price range had been set high due to his education.

Mycroft sat down and waited, both hoping and dreading for Sherlock to be brought back as well, but it soon became evident that his brother had been sold. He lay on the bed, realisation hitting hard that he might never see Sherlock again. He could only hope his brother's buyers were good people, and that Sherlock had listened to his advice. But at least he had been bought. He supposed, in his position, it was the best possible birthday present he could expect.

* * *

Breakfast between them had become by far one of John's favourite things. They might watch the morning news in the sitting room or he could read the newspaper, and he could comment on things like he was talking to a perfectly normal human being. During the breakfast he often forgot Holmes was a slave at all. They talked and they joked and they laughed together. And each time the spell would eventually break, leaving John feel awkward and uncomfortable. Holmes was not his friend. No matter how natural and right it may have felt to speak with him, it wasn't right. It only caused tension to built up between them when at first they were acting like friends and then abruptly switched back to master and slave.

He couldn't blame Holmes, though. As the master, it was his responsibility to make the rules and enforce the power structure. He should've stopped this nonsense of his slave addressing him by his first name, but he didn't want to.

He knew he was being inconsistent, and that it must have confused Holmes. Treating him as a human being made him feel like a human being, but he wasn't. It was just so easy to forget at times.

"I should be back by six," he informed Holmes. It was his first actual full day of work since moving back to the country. Not anything full time, but he'd be doing a sick leave substitution for the next four days at least. Hopefully other work would follow. He was running low on money given all the recent expenses. He might have to start seriously considering alternative ways of making money. "I want the tea ready or near ready at least. If it takes longer, help yourself and keep my share warm. Wish me luck."

"Good luck, John," Holmes obediently wished. "While you're gone, can I go out?"

John thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. If his record so far was anything to go by, chances were he would't even be home by the time John got back –let alone would there be any food prepared. The slave had been going out a lot recently. Ever since he had got his commuting rights and permit to carry currency he had finally started to make the most of John's promise that he could go out given that John knew where he went and why.

His reasons were always the same. He wished to communicate and meet with "other slaves" as he himself put it. So far he had managed to arrive back punctually only once. At best, he was late by anything between five minutes to half an hour. At worst –hours. The record so far was over eight hours and the only explanation John got was "I lost the track of time". Holmes's GPS record revealed him going all across London and beyond, and often to completely different places he'd said he was going. How exactly he did that, John had no idea. Holmes swore he was not using John's money. Every time John asked, the only offered explanation was "plans changed" and stoic submission to any discipline John deemed proper. They'd worked out a system for that by now.

"I should just keep you in the house, " John had said one time.

Holmes had been on his knees instantly. "No, please. I'm sorry I was late. I can't promise it won't happen again, but I accept  _any_  punishment. I know I deserve it. Please, I'm at your mercy. Just don't take this from me."

And so John had agreed. If Holmes rather got beaten for not arriving punctually than didn't go out at all then so be it. But tonight John wanted him present.

"No," he simply said.

"Why not?" the man instantly wanted to know. No proper slave would questions its master, but by now John had grown used to Holmes's lack of respect. So long as he didn't cross the line, John could allow it.

"Because I said no."

"But what–"

"No."

"–if I need to pop out to the shops?" the slave finished.

John rolled his eyes. "You can go shopping if needed, but no further. And if you do, ask Mrs Hudson if she needs anything."

"Fine," Holmes muttered, holding the door open for him.

"Behave," John scolded, elbowing the man lightly. "And don't touch my computer."

The slave narrowed his eyes. "Yes, John."

With John gone and no permission to leave or use to the computer, Sherlock had nothing to do. Or rather, there would've been plenty to do if one were a dedicated house slave, but he had no patience for that. He entertained himself by checking on a few experiments hidden at the back of the fridge and coming up with a new one he could hide under the sink.

Mrs Hudson, cheerful as ever, visited around midday with biscuits and interrupted his experiments. Her slave Billy was visiting his mother who lived somewhere near Dorset Square. Mrs Hudson had seen him at Baker Street station with a "for sale" sign, handing out his owners' email addresses to those interested. She'd ended up buying him with a little IT help from Mrs Turner (or her slave) next door.

"I'm not getting any younger, am I? It's good to have someone around to read the small prints and pick things up from the floor. With the hip I've got, too..."

While Sherlock was fond of her, truly he was –not like a slave should adore its owner, but like a human being liked another's company– he had also come to the realisation that he couldn't stand the woman around for too long at a time. After twenty-five minutes of attempting to remain polite he snapped at her and received a surprisingly hard slap on his cheek. She left quickly, muttering to herself as she went.

"Rude, just rude. Just you wait until your new master hears about this."

It was only half past two and Sherlock seriously considered leaving despite been ordered not to, when he heard heavy footsteps climbing up the stairs. He would have recognised them anywhere.

"If you came to wish me a happy anniversary, you're late," he sighed when the door opened. He ought to have wished Mycroft a happy belated birthday, but he didn't. If Mycroft wanted to commemorate either occasion he should've showed up on the actual day. He didn't bother getting up from the sofa or opening his eyes. He heard Mycroft move in the room and come to a halt at the armchairs.

"Well," his brother spoke. "It's certainly an improvement to your previous lodgings. Could use a bit tiding up, but if this is how your owner prefers it..."

Sherlock opened his eyes to see him poking at John's used sock with the tip of his umbrella. He sprang up and kicked the sock under John's chair where its pair likely was as well. "It's exactly as John likes it."

Mycroft smirked knowingly. He was back to wearing a smaller leather collar with his name written in cursive font on a metal plate. It was still quite a bit larger than what slaves usually wore.

"Back in your mistress's favour then?"

"I should hope so," his brother replied. "And how are you doing with yours? Last time you were rather sore and you don't appear much better now."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had no bruises that would have been visible with clothing. Something in his body language must have given them away to Mycroft's keen eye, despite trying to hide any pain or discomfort came to him so naturally he hardly even paid any conscious attention to it.

"Did you come all this way to ask me that?"

"Amongst other things. I happened to be in the area and mistress has no further use for me right now."

Sherlock said nothing.

"But apart from little soreness you seem perfectly alright. What about the potential buyer? Have you learnt anything new?"

"I've been asking around," Sherlock decided to answer. He'd spent a considerable amount of time reconnecting with his old connections and retrieving items he'd hidden or given away years ago. He had asked about Moriarty, but with little success. "The majority know nothing and those who seem to know something are too scared to talk. Just rumours in the shadows and figures in the corner of my eye."

Mycroft's eyebrows drew together. "Scared? Sherlock, if you would let me in on this–"

"It's none of your business," Sherlock cut him off. He didn't want Mycroft's help, didn't want his brother to stick his nose into this and potentially get on the bad side of his mistress because of him. Chances were the collar last time had been because of him. Their entire unfortunate situation was because of him.

"I've told you that little hobby of yours would eventually get you in trouble. You'd be better off focusing on your master."

"My hobbies are none of your business."

"Does your master know?"

"It's none of his business, either."

"For your sake, I hope he won't find out," Mycroft disapproved.

"John might end up liking it."

"Yes, he does seem to be missing the war," Mycroft mused. "Perhaps that's why he tolerates you. But for how long?"

"He seems to like me just fine," Sherlock let his brother know, acting far more confident than he felt. John seemed determined to "win" —to endure his behaviour and keep him. For now at least. Part of him feared what he knew would happen once he stepped over the line and John returned him. There was a part of him that wished for John to get fed up with him. Discard him like a faulty object he was, as so many had done before him. Because John was different. John made him feel...made him nearly forget what he was. A dangerous thing for a slave to feel, and a terrible ache in his chest each time he was brought down and reminded of his true place. They were not equals. John wouldn't forget for long what he was.

"There's lot you could do to ensure he keeps you," Mycroft said, eyeing his surroundings.

"Easy for you to say. You might be a slave, but you've still got slaves to command. The hardest task around the house you have is to sleep with your mistress," he scorned. "Not that  _you_  consider that a chore."

"Sex with your owner is a privilege and in fact quite pleasant," Mycroft all but lectured calmly. "Speaking of which,  _have you_  slept with yours yet?"

Sherlock looked at him defiantly and said nothing.

"Ah. Sherlock, you have to stop being so–"

"He hasn't ordered me to," he blurted out. Mycroft looked at him skeptically. Sherlock couldn't blame him. He himself had thought it obvious John would want to test him the very first night he owned him. "He doesn't want to sleep with me."

"Have you offered yourself?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Of course not."

"Well therein lies your problem. You are so insubordinate he thinks you'd make a scene of it."

Sherlock pursed his lips and inclined his head to look away from his brother.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm  _not_  going to beg him to fuck me."

"Nor should you. Just let him know you are available. It's not healthy for your master."

"I  _am_  available. I have no choice."

"Only on principle." Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock. You're not getting a better owner. If I were you–"

"But you  _aren't_."

"–I would do anything in my power to be kept," his brother continued uninterruptedly. "And so should you."

Sherlock sighed and sunk on the leather armchair that had become "his" seat. Seat! He had a seat. Unbelievable. Most of his owners hadn't even let him sit on furniture without permission. He leant back and looked at the ceiling.

"I know," he eventually said. "Believe me, I do. But I can't. I'm not like you, and I won't become like you."

He could tell himself a million times over that it was all transport —no matter who owned his body as long as he had his mind. But it wasn't true. There was no escaping the fact that he was a slave, nor did he try anymore. He accepted it, he truly did. But he hated it.

"We both know that's not true," Mycroft tutted.

Sherlock stayed stubbornly silent. Despite how Sherlock had been younger when they were sold, it was Mycroft who had adjusted better. Logically, it should have been Sherlock, and yet he still struggled in all the wrong ways. But it hadn't always been so.

"Marlowe," Mycroft pronounced with a hint of a knowing smile.

Oh, low blow. That was low. Sherlock's fingers curled around the armrests.

"That was a long time ago," he snarled. It didn't count. "I'm sure you know how to show yourself out."

"I still have a few minutes," Mycroft countered and carefully sat at the opposite chair. "I'm not here to fight with you. I just came to see how you're doing."

"And now you've seen how I'm doing. Why are you still here?"

Mycroft didn't reply, and Sherlock kept looking at the ceiling. At least Mycroft wore a smaller collar now. It hurt to see him with the heavy, polished metal around his neck. It stung, because Sherlock knew it was because of him.

 _I will have you freed_ , Mycroft had said. Even though he'd known it would never be true, he had believed it. He had waited for his brother to come and save him, to magically fix everything. But days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months and months turned to years. He had all but given up on believing he would ever see his brother again when after three years, on a hot summer day, Hannah interrupted his daily violin practise.

"Sherlock, your brother's here to see you."

He'd rushed to the door, heart leaping, full of hope. He hardly even recognised the young man standing by the road. He'd lost so much weight that despite Sherlock growing himself, it seemed as if Mycroft had got taller as well. Maybe he had. Sherlock had rushed across the small yard, only to come to a sudden halt as he registered the collar around Mycroft's neck. His heart sank, shattering all the giddy happiness and hope. Mycroft wasn't there to free him.

"You're still a slave," he blurted out.

His brother closed his eyes briefly. "Yes."

The single word carried heavy regret.

"I-I knew that." God, he didn't want Mycroft to see how disappointed he was. How naïvely he had believed Mycroft was here to take him away.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said, even though he had nothing to apologise for. His eyes seemed to scour him for information. "You look well," he offered. "I'm glad you still play."

Sherlock could only nod. Someone rolled down the window of a car across the road. It was a fine car. Black, shiny in the sun with tinted windows. But Mycroft's clothes alone were enough to tell his owners were wealthy.

"Fatty! Oi, Fatty!"

The grimace of shame on Mycroft's face was the worst thing he'd ever seen, but it was gone instantly and his brother turned to face the caller. "Yes, master?"

"You saw him. I haven't got all day. Get back in the car."

Mycroft didn't even turn back to look at Sherlock. "I'll visit again if I can," he said quietly and crossed the road.

He did, but by next summer Mycroft was sold to MI5 and Sherlock had expected to never see him again. Mycroft may have believed him dead for the past four years, but Sherlock hadn't heard a thing from him for nine years until The Oyster House was all over the news and Mycroft saw his face on a newspaper. Not that it would have helped, had Mycroft been able to keep an eye on him.

Neither had moved for several minutes now. Sherlock still stared at the ceiling. He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, but there was nothing either of them wanted to say. Then Mycroft stood up and walked out of the door. Sherlock remained as he was for four more minutes, lost in thought, hating the fact that his brother was right. He got up only to crouch on the floor to dig out the dirty sock under John's chair. He found an extra plate that still had a half eaten biscuit on it –and the other sock.

Dirty clothes and dirty dishes. This was his life. These were the things he was supposed to care about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed. Please take a moment to let me know your thoughts if you've got a moment to spare. That would be really nice.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hello there, child."

Sherlock looked at the blonde woman crouching at his level. She smiled at him. Behind her stood another woman, but Sherlock could tell from her posture she was a slave. The man who bought him hadn't spoken much and Sherlock had been too scared and distressed to speak to him. He'd done his best not to cry as they drove away from the auction building of The Institute of Slavery, but he was so, so scared and so utterly alone. The collar choked him and it had been cold in the car.

Mycroft had said it would be a good thing if he were sold. It didn't feel like it at all, but he tried to be brave. He imagined he was a pirate captain, taken prisoner. He would need to be cunning and clever to escape.

"Hello," he replied. Mummy had always told him to be polite. He attempted his best to stand still in the living room he'd been brought into. The man had gone, leaving him to this woman. She played violin, Sherlock could see it. And there had been a sign in the window by the door saying "violin lessons".

The woman pursed her lips at his reply and without a warning slapped him across his face. Sherlock yelped in surprise. It stung, but he would not cry. His eyes darted around the room. He saw the slave look at him with pity.

The woman smiled again. "Do you know why I slapped you?"

Sherlock did not reply, only stared at her with wide eyes. She frowned. "I'll slap you again if you don't answer."

He gulped, pulling his arms around himself protectively. He shook his head. "No."

"There you go. That wasn't so hard, was it?" she said sweetly, but when no reply came, her brows furrowed even further. " _Answer me_."

Sherlock bit his lip nervously. "No?"

"See, it's not hard at all," she repeated. "Well, I will tell you this only once. I slapped you, because you did not address me properly. It's alright, I can forgive you this one time."

Her gaze swept over him, assessing him. She didn't stop smiling her gentle smile. "I know this is all new to you. I know you've just become a slave."

"I'm not a slave," Sherlock said angrily.

"Yes you are," the woman corrected him. "I understand it's very confusing at first, but I'll help you with that. Tell me, did your parents have any slaves?"

Sherlock glanced at the slave. She tried to smile at him reassuringly. He nodded cautiously. "Yes."

"And what did they call your mummy and daddy?"

This one he knew at least. "Mistress and master," he replied with a bit more confidence.

"And that's were you went wrong," she firmly stated. "Let's try again, shall we? Hello there, child."

"Hello," Sherlock stubbornly repeated.

This time the slap hurt even worse.

" _No_." She sounded like she was chiding a dog. "I'm your owner. You  _must_  call me "mistress". Do you understand?"

"Yes."

The third slap made his eyes water.

"Do you understand?"

Sherlock attempted to swallow the tears. His voice wavered only a little. "Yes, mistress."

The smile returned to her face. "That's better. Always address me and my husband as your mistress and master. Use it like a punctuation mark. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Well done!" she cheered and ruffled his hair. "I'm sure we'll get along very well. Tell me your name."

"Sherlock Holmes, mistress", he sniffed, too late remembering what Mycroft had told him about his real name.

"Sher– what?"

"Nothing, mistress."

He was smacked across his face for the fourth time and first tears rolled down his cheeks. Mummy and Daddy had never hit him.

"Do not defy me. Just repeat the name."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Mistress."

She bit the knuckle of her left index finger thoughtfully, then shook her head. "That's too difficult, we'll go with Holmes."

Sherlock nodded miserably –and she slapped him once more.

"What do we say?" she asked sweetly.

"Y-yes, mistress..?"

She ruffled his hair again. "Well done! Now wipe those tears and follow me. My name is Lydia Marlowe, my husband is called Henry. Our house slave over here is called Hunny. She'll help you adjust to your new life. Don't worry, Holmes. You're in good hands. We'll take care of you now. You'll have a purpose here."

When night came, Hunny took him to the kitchen and locked him all alone in the dark slave cupboard. It wasn't at all exciting like it had been those times he'd sneaked inside one at home, pretending it was a cave where a hidden treasure awaited to be found.

"I'm sorry," the slave called Hunny said. "Mistress ordered me to. She fears you might try to escape."

She closed the door, leaving Sherlock into almost complete darkness. The narrow streaks of light weren't enough to help him see. He heard the latch move, locking him in.

"Once you prove yourself trustworthy, you won't be locked in," she spoke. "Goodnight, Holmes. I'll let you out in the morning. You can help me prepare breakfast."

Sherlock heard her walk away, and when she turned off the kitchen lights nothing but blackness surrounded him. Panicking he tried pushing the door, but it didn't budge. He froze when creaking sounds came from above him. He scrambled blindly on the floor, feeling the blanket on it. He crawled until he found a pillow —and hit his head against something. He felt the wooden edge with his hands, running his fingers up along it until they hit the ceiling. He flattened his palm against it, then slid his hand along the ceiling until it came to an abrupt end. Stairs, he realised. He was feeling the underside of the stairs. The noises had been Hunny climbing upstairs.

Sherlock breathed out, sitting down. Mycroft would've told him he should've known he was under the stairs –he'd been given a tour in the house. Mycroft would've called him unobservant.

The thought of Mycroft made him angry. Stupid, stupid fat Mycroft. Where was he now? Why wasn't he here? Why hadn't he done anything? Mycroft had told him it'd be good if he was sold. But it wasn't good at all. Maybe Mycroft had always wanted to sell him. Tears fell down his face when he remembered the times he'd bullied Mycroft, the times he'd got himself in trouble and Myc had muttered: "Behave, Sherlock. Don't you know that bad kids are sold as slaves?"

"Slavers will take away naughty kids," Sandy had warned him many times. Even Mummy had said it. "Stop or I'll have your father sell you."

What if they had all really meant it?

He was a bad kid, wasn't he? He still didn't understand why, but Mycroft had told him it was secret Daddy was friends with the cellist. He'd let the secret out, and Mummy and Daddy had both been angrier than he'd ever seen them. And they were both dead now. Dead because Sherlock had not known to keep his mouth shut.

He hugged the pillow and pressed his face against the blanket. There was no mattress for him to sleep on. Just the blanket and some kind of a folded rug under it. Violent sobs shook his body, he wailed and hiccuped his grief and fear and loneliness. He wanted nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare and seek comfort from his parents' bedroom. He wanted to curl up between his mummy and daddy in their bed, and have them tell him everything was well. That it was all a bad dream, and then they'd have Sandy make him hot chocolate and sing him to sleep.

But none of that would happen ever again. Sandy and the others were sold elsewhere. Mycroft had been sold. Mummy and Daddy were dead. Even Redbeard was gone.

Tears still rolled on his face each time he blinked, but he was too exhausted for anything more. He wished he could still be at InS with Mycroft. He'd rather be in that cell together with his brother than here. Maybe Mycroft was all alone, locked in a cupboard somewhere just like Sherlock was.

I will get you out of this. I  _will_  have you freed.

Mycroft had said that. Mycroft was smart and he was always right. Mycroft always kept his promises. He would come and save him. He had to. He'd said he would.

But until then, Sherlock was all alone in the world.

* * *

The room felt different that night. It took John a few seconds to figure out why. The unpacked boxes from the floor had disappeared, and John's books that had been there were neatly arranged in the mostly empty bookshelf. Previously only some of either Mrs Hudson's or some previous tenant's books had been the only ones there. Or perhaps some of them had belonged to the late Mr Hudson.

The pile of newspapers, adverts and magazines that had taken most of the space on the sitting room's table were gone. The room in general seemed far more orderly than when he left in the morning.

Holmes came to the kitchen's doorway holding the recipe book John had bought him. Holmes had warned he'd never been responsible for preparing food before, but so far he'd done well.

"Almost done," Holmes announced. He turned on his heels to go back, but quickly turned around again. "How was your day, master?"

John's eyebrow rose slowly. "What's this now?"

"What's what?"

John gestured the room. "You've cleaned."

Holmes regarded the room with a confused expression before meeting his eyes. "Yes."

"I didn't tell you to."

"Did you not want me to?"

"You  _never_  clean unless I tell you to."

"Ah," was all Holmes said with a curt nod. "Excuse me, master. The dinner."

John followed him. Clean plates and cutlery were on one end of the table, used bowls, cutting board and knives on the other. Holmes set the book down on the counter and started to gather the dishes.

John took the clean plates and began setting the table.

"Master, you don't need to–"

"It's John," he reminded. "And I can if I want to."

As they sat down to eat, John attempted asking again of his slave's sudden interest in house work, but he received no better answer. Holmes began asking him about his day at the clinic, and it was hours later John realised Holmes had carefully manipulated him the entire evening not to ask again. Given the previous experiences with Holmes behaving like a normal slave had him suspicious, but Holmes assured him his intentions were good when John confronted him again. John was beginning to suspect Holmes was prone to phases like these.

Work kept him busy for the next three days, and Holmes's good behaviour persisted. Lestrade phoned him, asking if he could borrow Holmes. He agreed, but was secretly disappointed not to be able to go with them. But perhaps it had been for the best. Despite still remaining polite, Holmes complained it had been incredibly boring and waste of his time.

"I could've solved that one over the phone."

Even so, he explained the case for John. At first the young woman's death seemed as baffling as Lestrade had made it sound. Then Holmes pointed out the obvious detail no one else had even thought to question. With the right questions asked the boyfriend's, the original suspect's, alibi made little sense.

"So it was the boyfriend?"

"Obviously."

John shook his head amusedly. "Brilliant."

"Child's play," Holmes dismissed, but clearly he was pleased with himself.

John's temporary job came to an end, and he marked the occasion with a nice hot bath. It was good to have a proper sized bathroom. Harry might laugh, but few things were better than a dim lit bathroom and a warm bath. Even better when the dim light was provided by tea lights on a dinner plate (on the toilet lid, but best ignore that) and soft melodies drifted beyond the ajar door to his bedroom. After moving to Baker Street, Holmes had finally given a sample of his violin skills. It had been by John's request, though he thought it odd Holmes hadn't asked himself. Having now heard him play, John assured him he could play any time unless told otherwise. Holmes was pleased by his praise and confessed he'd been unsure whether his master would like the playing, and so had only played in John's absence. Since then John had caught him fiddling it deep in thought. The noises he produced with the instrument weren't exactly music, but they weren't unpleasant.

John didn't pretend he knew much about playing instruments. He'd only played clarinet unsuccessfully for a while in his youth. But even so, Holmes seemed skilful. He had tried calling several places by now during his lunch breaks, but alas hadn't found anyone interested in renting a violinist. Two places he'd reached out to actually remembered Holmes, and had nothing but good things to say. Holmes wasn't a musical genius, but very good nevertheless. It was a good sign, but didn't help John. He needed money now. He didn't regret moving, but doing so and getting a slave had come with unexpected expenses. Perhaps there could be something else he could rent his slave for.

John sighed heavily. He had meant to relax, not worry over his financial situation. He didn't feel like getting up at all, but by now the water was only lukewarm. With some mental effort to get himself moving he finally stepped out of the bathtub. The music stopped and when he stepped into the bedroom towelling his hair dry, Holmes was ready to help a dressing gown on him. The violin was in its open case on the bed.

John sat on the edge of bed and eyed at the case curiously while Holmes took his towel to the bathroom. He didn't touch the instrument, though. It belonged to Holmes and John had no right to take it. But he had to wonder how Holmes had come to own such a thing. Slaves rarely owned anything and most commonly clothes or cheap accessory. He didn't know anything about violins, but this particular one didn't look new. It was in good conditions, at least to his eyes. According to Holme's papers it was antique and looking at it now that was easy to believe. The case was newer, but not new either. It had a small metal plate with letters S.H. engraved to it.

Sherlock saw him looking and for a moment a knot twisted in his stomach. Each time with a new owner he feared they might not honour his ownership to it. Twice he'd already accepted he'd lost it forever. But for once the bureaucracy that ran the InS had been on his side.

Mistress Marlowe had known a great deal about violins and had been very keen to see the one her new slave had brought with him. She hadn't meant any ill with her actions, but he hadn't seen it so at the time. He had clawed and screamed and fought like a wild animal when she took the violin.

"Give it back, give it back! It's mine! They said it's mine!"

"This is no instrument for a child," she'd said. "You will play it when you're older. I will put it away until you're worthy of it."

Sherlock cleared his throat. John turned to look up at him, and he leant down to close the case and took it away.

"S.H.?" John questioned.

"Someone's initials," Sherlock replied.

"Yours?"

"The plate is older than I am," he pointed out. He pushed a piece of the wall that was actually a well hidden slave cupboard's door and dumped the case in. Many old houses still had cupboards that had to be opened with a key and could be locked, but thankfully Mrs Hudson had cared about the safety of the slave of her future tenant's when she'd decided to renovate the flat. Nowadays the recommendation was that a slave should never be locked in a cupboard. In case of fire the slave rarely was the first thing people thought of saving, and many slaves had died unable to get out. People still did it, but numerous fire safety campaigns had reduced the amount of slave deaths.

The cupboards weren't actual cupboards despite how they were called. They were more like tiny rooms in crawlspaces between the walls. Sherlock had no complaints about the one he now occupied. The space was high enough for him to sit down with his back straight, wide enough for him to lie comfortably on his back without either of his shoulders being against the wall and the space took almost full length of the wall, so he had more than enough space to sleep comfortably. String of bright LED-lights ran by the low ceiling and there were four deep shelves at the back for him to keep his clothes and possessions. The ventilation was good, it was dry and there was no way for rodents to get in. It wasn't even very claustrophobic compared to some cupboards Sherlock had occupied previously.

"Fair enough," John shrugged. "Some tea would be nice."

"Anything else?"

"No. I think I'll just watch the news and head for the bed," he said. He got up to move to the sitting room. "Take something if you're hungry."

Sherlock followed him. "Thank you. Can I use your computer?"

"I guess. You've been using it a lot lately."

"I know a lot of people," he replied vaguely. He may not have had friends, but he had acquaintances from all levels of life. He knew slaves whose entire world was the building they tended to, and people who would sell even their own families to make profit. He'd met murderers and blackmailers, slavers and thieves. Not all of them he would help, but it was beneficial to know them.

"Seems like it... I'd like to meet some of these friends of yours," John requested as they moved through the kitchen.

"They're slaves and they're not my friends," Sherlock dismissed. John wouldn't need to know. And he wasn't lying, not entirely. Some of his clients were slaves. The name Sherlock Holmes had a good reputation amongst them. It was obviously a risk to take cases from free people at all without telling them he was a slave, but that was part of the thrill. Most things were trivial anyway, and didn't require him to do anything or go anywhere that would give away his status.

"Still. You've been meeting them an awful lot after we moved."

"Don't they say that it's good for slaves to socialise with other slaves?"

John frowned, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "In that case you could try learning something from them. You didn't even put the kettle on yet."

"Sorry." Sherlock backtracked to the kitchen, refilled the kettle and logged in on John's laptop while the water boiled. His inbox had nothing worth of his attention. He was routinely asked to track down runaway slaves, but he never bothered replying no matter what they may have offered him in return.

Large majority of enquiries he got through his website didn't even require him to leave the house. The only new even remotely interesting message on his website fell into that category.

"Holmes, I'm still waiting!" John called over the television. Sherlock pushed the chair back to fulfil the forgotten task.

"Honestly..." his master muttered, accepting the mug. He set it aside. "You're slipping. I talked with Mrs Hudson the other day, and Billy's the age where he starts rebelling and you should be an example. She shouldn't need to deal with that."

John extended his arm and beckoned with his fingers. He wasn't angry, not really. He was just doing what he was expected to do. Sherlock pursed his lips, but obeyed the wordless order and fetched the rattan cane. John didn't even bother getting up. He hit Sherlock's thighs once through trousers and gave the cane back for him to put away.

"And no more computer tonight," John added.

"No, I need–"

"You don't need anything I don't tell you need," John reminded. "Argue with me and I'll hit you again. And then a couple of times more, because I completely missed what the previous thing was about," he said, pointing at the television. "Go warm the bed or something."

Sherlock swallowed. Would John finally..? "Should I–?"

" _Go_."

Sherlock bowed and returned to the bedroom with the laptop, but he didn't defy John. He cleared the browser history and put the computer away. He didn't know whether he should actually get into John's bed or not, or whether John had been referring to possible sexual activities or not. There were two ways to take the phrase "warm the bed".

It could mean literally that –get under the covers and move when the master wanted to sleep. Small children liked their bed already body temperature in winter. Hot water bottles worked as well, but a human body spread the warmth more evenly. Sherlock had loved it when he was child.

Or...it could be an euphemism for sex.

It could have meant he should ready himself for that. Considering he'd been John's property for almost two months now, it was about time. During the weeks John had owned him, he hadn't so much as touched Sherlock in any even remotely sexual way. No groping or slapping his arse. The only times John touched him were to discipline him, and those times Sherlock knew what to expect. Having lived his life with people so often randomly touching him it felt almost unnerving that John hadn't done anything of the sort. Unconsciously he was near constantly prepared for unwanted touches, and when none came the nervous energy just built up within him.

Whichever the case, Sherlock changed to pyjamas and slipped under the duvet. It was heavenly compared to sleeping on the floor or even on the thin mattress in the cupboard. Soft and warm, and it smelled faintly of fresh flowery fabric conditioner Mrs Hudson had made him use. He practically melted against the mattress and buried his cheek against the pillow with a delighted sigh. A bed was such a normal, simple thing, yet for a slave it was a rare luxury. Sherlock had slept on top of John's bed at the previous flat, but the last actual, proper time he'd slept in a bed had been with master and mistress Summers back in December. Back then sex had always been involved if he had been given the privilege of actually staying in the bed for the night. More often than not he'd been ordered to move away once his services were no longer needed. Sharing the bed with his mistress had only been allowed when master was away. Would John let him stay, he wondered?

Since Mycroft's visit he had attempted to clean his act a little. Mycroft was right, of course. He always was. And wasn't that hateful?

For the past days he'd left one more button of his shirt undone to show more skin. He'd paid attention to his body language to seem more submissive. He had brushed his hand against John's body whenever there was a chance to do so accidentally. Subtle hints to let his master know he was available and willing –even desired it.

John was yet to take the bait. He didn't seem to have noticed at all. Larger part of Sherlock was relieved, but the little part whispering he was a failure, incompetent and unwanted, remained. He had no desire to encage in any kind of sexual activities with John, and yet the thoughts would not leave him: He's your master. You should love him. You should want him. If he doesn't want you, you're worth  _nothing_.

And what frightened him the most was that somewhere deep within him a part of him wanted to. A part of him that truly was a slave wanted to love and want his master, wanted to submit and serve. The slave in him just wanted to feel secure and safe again. Wanted the relief of knowing someone else always knew what was best for him. It's sickened him. He wasn't like that. He would  _never_ be like that again.

Mycroft's words came back to haunt him.  _We both know that's not true. Marlowe._

Why now, why after nearly twenty years? Why John Watson? What was there about this crippled army doctor that made him even consider submitting to slavery ever again?

The fact that he didn't know terrified him the most.

The free man in him should have hated John, but he didn't. In fact, he hadn't hated most of his owners. Loathed the system and loathed the situation, but not truly them. Mr Hudson and his thugs he would've hated had he had the energy to do so. At The Oyster House he'd been too drugged and too defeated to hate anyone but himself. The only one he had truly hated with burning rage had been master Singh. Him Sherlock would have happily killed in his sleep for how he treated his slaves. For what he'd done to his slaves. But of course Sherlock hadn't. Death was not the kind of freedom he pursued. Despite some of his weakest moments, he valued his life far more than he valued the freedom death would offer.

And right now John Watson was the only thing that stood between him and near certain execution.

As Mycroft had said, Sherlock should do his utmost best to ensure John would keep him. He'd done it with master and mistress Summers. He could do so with John.

Only none of his previous owners had ever forgotten his status and John had not bedded him yet. Perhaps Mycroft was right about that, too. Perhaps John thought he'd put up a fight.

It was laughable. Why would he fight? Why would he resist? He had no right to and the more agreeable he was the sooner it would be over. If only he could like it...

He wished he could. Everyone else did it so easily. Even Mycroft could find pleasure in it. So why couldn't he?

"You can learn to like it," he'd been told by slaves and free people alike. They weren't completely wrong. He could often enjoy the physical aspect of it. It could feel good, but that was just his body's natural way of reacting. He could act and pretend, but he couldn't  _truly_  enjoy it the way everyone else seemed to enjoy it. The worst of it was that it  _wasn't_  because he was a slave, not entirely. He'd met plenty of slaves who appeared to actually like it.

"It's just sex. What's there not to like?"

With a heavy sigh Sherlock curled on his left side under the duvet. He remembered, as a child, long before this nightmare, climbing into his bed before his nanny had even left. He'd pressed his cold toes against her thighs or tummy, and she'd hugged him, sang for him and read him stories. Mummy had sometimes read for him, too, but mostly she had been too busy. Sandy always left the door ajar so that Redbeard could walk in and sleep by his bed.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft's nagging voice in his mind reminded him of how John was a decent owner.

_Behave. Submit to it. Please him._

Please him. But John hadn't ordered him to. Or had he just now?

_Have you offered yourself?_

Sherlock buried his head deeper in the pillow and pulled the duvet tighter around his body. Not explicitly, no. Subtlety had got him nowhere. John wasn't attracted to him or men in general. That shouldn't have mattered. He was a slave. His duty was to pleasure his owner, not to be loved or adored. John didn't need to find him attractive to take his enjoyment. Did John really think Sherlock would object? Even if he would, why would John care?

Sherlock's gaze lingered at his cupboard's door. He felt warm and comfortable here. His body felt sluggish and the duvet was heavy on him. It would be nice to get to stay and sleep here. Maybe it would be better to get it over and done with. Sooner or later it would happen, and the wait was surely worse than the routine it would become.

John must have known that Sherlock could perfectly well hear him, were it in shower or at night in his bed. Especially those few times online porn had been involved. But again, Sherlock was only a slave. It didn't matter what he saw or heard. After the first few weeks of insecurity about a slave around at all times, John now seemed to feel at ease with his presence. He didn't necessarily order him out of the room when he changed clothes. After a shower he didn't feel the need to hurry covering himself with a towel.

Sherlock would lie in his cupboard and listen, thinking that it should have been his duty to get up and offer his services for his master. Not that he had ever really done so. He hadn't needed to. His previous owners had not been shy to tell him what they wanted.

His eyes stung, but he forced himself to keep them open. It would be rude to fall asleep.

Perhaps...no matter what John had meant, perhaps it would be better to have it happen tonight. Tonight was just as good as any other night. Even if he aggravated John with his inability to properly submit to his role, at least he could please him in the bedroom. Others had kept him around for a little longer for that despite his many faults. John would, too.

Sherlock's fingers gripped the duvet. No matter what John had planned, it would happen tonight. He would offer himself like Mycroft had told him to. He would put on his best "I want you" face and crawl across the bed to greet him as soon as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

"Master, please," he would say. Husky voice, pleading eyes. He'd reach at him, let his hands hover just above his crotch –a slave would never touch before given permission. But he could pretend he wanted to. "Allow me, master."

John would let him, surely. He was so desperate for it. Sherlock would help him undress, make sure to brush against his skin as he did. Maybe pay him a compliment. He'd done it hundreds of times –calculatingly, convincingly.

Sherlock slid his hand under the pyjama bottoms. It would be more convincing if he looked the part. He would kneel down, undo John's belt and flies. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he planned while stroking himself, imagined to detail what he would do to convince John this was what they both wanted. He would guide him to sit on the bed, pull down his trousers. He could start with teasing touches through John's pants. Help him off his shirt. Kiss his neck and roll his tongue around his nipple, trace the scar on his shoulder and caress his thighs. He could almost feel fingers curling in his hair, pressing him down, urging him to get closer and begin.

The fingers in his hair gripped harder, tugged so violently that it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut against the flashing lights, but he couldn't shut the music out. The bass radiated from the floor, vibrating through his body. His hands shook as he fumbled with the flies in the dark. The man's knee had been going up and down with the rhythm until Sherlock began. Now his feet were firmly against the floor as he worked his hips to push himself deeper in Sherlock's throat. It was disgusting –so, so utterly disgusting, yet he settled for his task eagerly. Desperately. He needed it  _so bad_ , but he still had to earn another hundred quid tonight or he wouldn't get his fix and he  _could not_  go on without it, so please, please how about it, sir? Ma'am? Wouldn't you take a look at my menu?

He startled awake when John rested his hand on his side and tugged at the duvet. He blinked, eyes darting in the room. The lights were off, but it was John's room. Not the dark cellar shared by thirty people where the lights and music so often followed him to his dreams, giving him no escape from them. But The Oyster House was gone.

He swallowed, trying to appear more awake than he was. "Master?"

His hand was still below the waistband, so he pulled it out discreetly as he arched his neck to look over his shoulder.

"Go to sleep," John said softly, pushing lightly at his back. Sherlock rolled off the bed and came to his knees on the floor.

"This is nice," John commented, shifting under the duvet to find a good position. "I haven't had a bed warmed since I was a kid. We had a slave when Harry and I were kids, you know," he spoke.

"We used to play in her cupboard. It was like a cave. Harry locked me in couple of times," he told with a grimace. "I don't know how you slaves do it, I was terrified. Mum and Dad were always really angry 'cause people shouldn't play in slave cupboards."

Sherlock listened silently, still kneeling by the bed. He could well remember his first nights in a cupboard, only it hadn't been terrifying at all. Not after the first night. It had felt like the only safe, manageable place in the world. As long as he'd been in there, the world outside didn't exist.

"Anyway, the slave," John went on. "She was old for a slave and had to be put down. We never got a new one. My mum said it was either a car or a new slave."

Sherlock commented nothing. Clearly tonight was not the night either. It should have been a relief, but instead he only felt disgustingly inadequate. "Anything you need, John?"

John shook his head. "Go to sleep," he repeated.

* * *

"Holmes."

Sherlock heard him the first time, but the voice was far away. It came from beyond his mind palace and went forgotten the moment he chose to ignore it. Somewhere at the back of his mind he made a note that John had stopped drumming his fingers on the table.

"Holmes," John repeated more determinedly.

This time he exhaled deeply to let the man know he was listening, but did not open his eyes or even move otherwise. John's voice had been hesitant the first time. It did rouse his interest, but he kept lounging on the sofa, betraying none of it.

His master cleared his throat and Sherlock could imagine John's tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. Nervous. Uncertain. He'd been sitting on the computer all night, typing painstakingly slowly every so often. After finishing with the dishes Sherlock had thrown himself on the sofa, one leg over the armrest, one foot on the floor. Practically on display, but John had just frowned over his laptop. Oh he had looked at him, probably stared at him for minutes at a time while he lay with his eyes closed, but there was nothing carnal about his gaze. Mistress Summers would've smirked and walked right up to him to claim her property had he pulled the same stunt for her. She would have enjoyed combining sex and punishing him for daring to lounge on the sofa.

"Listen, I– I know I said I wouldn't, but... The thing is, with the move and all the recent new expenses," John went on, circling around the subject.

Sherlock opened his eyes, inclining his head to get a better look at him, but did not get up from the sofa. "Yes, John?"

John shifted on his chair and his eyes darted to the door and back before settling back to him.

"I'm going to have to rent you," John admitted.

Sherlock sat up and listened, careful not to let anything show on his face. His heart sank at the look on John's face. It was a clear confirmation that he wasn't joking.

"I see," he said.

"I see?" John repeated. "That's all?"

"What else can I say?" Sherlock countered. It wasn't his choice. "You need money, you own a slave. Naturally, you'll use the slave to make more money."

Had he been in John's place he'd have done the same.

"Your previous owners did rent you, is that correct?"

"They did," he confirmed. No use trying to deny it. He had been the one to suggest renting in the first place.

"Did they ever rent you for anything else than to play the violin?"

Sherlock hesitated for half a second. "Yes."

John nodded thoughtfully, but didn't ask what else he had been rented for. He took a pen and rolled it between his fingers.

"I called a few places I thought might need a violinist," he told. "Two places actually remembered you. No one needs a violinist right now, but they might give me a call in the future. That's alright with you, right?"

"Of course." He wouldn't mind at all if he could play somewhere. If John got money out of it, that was just a bonus.

"I still need money, though," John spoke. "I've been looking through some rental places, but I don't want to sign you up at an agency. It's just until I get paid."

Sherlock nodded. Agencies would take commission and there'd be a sign up fee. "Any free site for classified ads works."

"What do you think I should rent you for?"

"I could play at weddings. Not the best season for that, and people plan those months ahead. Birthdays, corporate events."

John wrote it down. "Okay, good ideas. Anything else?"

"House keeping. Sometimes people rent a house slave if their own is ill, or if they don't have one, but need to impress someone. I could drive if you renew my licence."

"Maybe later," John said under his breath. He tapped the pen against his notes. "The renewal's just an extra cost right now. How much do people pay for these things?"

"I don't think more than few pounds an hour is realistic. Slave is typically the cheap choice. You could charge extra if I had to learn something new or stay after midnight."

"Doesn't sound like a very quick way of making money," John sighed. "What's the best paying thing you could do?"

Sherlock didn't even blink. There was only one thing. "Sex."

"No," John said instantly. "Not that."

You did not rent your personal slave to strangers for sex. You just didn't. People might rather rent privately owned slaves than go to a slave club or get an escort, but he might as well be whoring himself. "Excluding that."

"How much do you need?"

"Couple of hundred."

"Hen party or a stag do then. Any similar party. You could make up to hundred quid a night."

John looked uncertain and for a reason. It wasn't that far from renting him for sex.

John folded his arms and there it was. Tongue darting out as he considered it. "Have you done it before?"

"Not because any of my owners would've rented me for it, but yes. Quick and easy."

For John.

There were no good memories from The Oyster House. Near naked, crouching on all fours on a table surrounded by laughing, giggling women. Spanked for each bad quality of the groom for marital happiness, milked for long lasting sex life and many kids to come. But it wasn't the worst thing he'd done or that had been done to him at The Oyster House.

Briefly he considered if it would be best just to tell John about his website. If ever, now would be the moment when John might actually be happy of the knowledge he had it. He could take a case and demand for payment.

But that would mean he'd never get to keep his earnings ever again. He didn't ask for anyone to pay, but people did. It was the only way apart from begging for him to get money he could call his own. He should rather suffer through a few more hours of humiliation than be deprived of the little amount of leeway money gave him. It wasn't like he truly had a face to lose.

"I guess you're right," John admitted. "Alright. Hen party it is. You can help me write the advert. We'll put up another one for music, too, just in case."

But by the next night nothing had come out of it. John hadn't expected a torrent of enquires, given that the site was full of adverts, but he'd thought surely he'd get at least one.

"It's because yours doesn't have a photo," Holmes said. "Look at all the others. They all have photos."

"Then we'll add one," John decided. It meant turning the sitting room into a rudimentary photo studio. They rearranged the lights and shut the glass doors to kitchen for a clear background.

"Strip," he ordered. He had to harden his heart not to feel sorry for Holmes. "Keep the stigma visible."

The photos were a clear game changer. By the next day the advert had produced twenty-six emails. Majority John trashed immediately. Couldn't people read? It was clearly written he wasn't renting Holmes for sex. He replied to fourteen messages and got two replies. Soon he had Holmes booked for a birthday group for the Friday night.

Holmes wasn't comfortable and John could see it, but his slave didn't complain. The moment the happily tipsy girls arrived for him everything about him seemed to change. He was all smiles and eager for their adoration like a puppy dog. Clearly he had no intention to sabotage John's business. Had he sulked or said he didn't want to do it, John would have felt even worse about himself.

But the girls paid cash in advance and had something for Holmes to wear. John didn't care to know what it was. While he slept comfortably in his bed, his slave was paraded around, groped and stared at, made to pour drinks, dance and perform idiotic tasks for the partiers entertainment.

Holmes was returned to him soon after eleven the next morning by a hungover lad in his mid-twenties.

"You should've seen the others," Holmes muttered when John commented on it. He was hungover himself and would've gone straight to bed had John allowed it. Instead John ordered him to shower and sit down at the kitchen table.

"So..? How was it?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Holmes said under his breath. He took a generous gulp of water John had given him.

"But it was as agreed? No one hurt you or tried to do anything to you?" John wanted a confirmation.

"The birthday girl was veeeery protective of me," he assured. "I'm not exactly a virgin, but untouched from last night, if that's what you mean."

"Mainly that," John admitted. In his younger days he'd been to parties with rented slaves. Usually the slaves were made to wear revealing fancy dresses and were treated as kind of a group mascot. They were ordered to sing and dance, losers of games might have needed to do something to them and it had always been funny to try to get the slave say something bad about its owner. And there was always that one jerk who tried to sleep with the slave, even if the rental agreement forbade it.

"Did you sing?"

"I never want to hear "Happy Birthday to You" again," Holmes replied.

John chuckled. "Well done, Holmes. Twice more and I hope I'll never have to rent you again. There might be a hen party you could do."

Holmes just grunted incoherently, but didn't seem to oppose the idea.

"What about that? What is it?" John asked, pointing at paper bag Holmes had left on the kitchen counter behind himself.

"They're mine," Holmes said immediately, turning to snatch the bag possessively. "I won them."

"Won?"

"Cigarettes," he confessed. "I got them for doing tricks. So they're mine."

"You're mine, so they're mine, too," John reminded. "I don't want you smoking."

Holmes scrambled up hastily and nearly threw himself on his knees. " _Please_ , let me keep them. I know I'm not ideal, but I'm not greedy. Please."

John didn't approve, but it would've felt wrong to take them away from him, considering what John had made him go through. "Fine, you can keep them. Just don't smoke them in the house."

"I won't."

"And you're not allowed to go out just for a fag. If you must, then do it while you're running errands."

Holmes grabbed his left hand with both hands and squeezed it hard. "Thank you, John. Thank you."

John pulled his hand back uneasily. "You did well. I guess you've earned it."

He sent Holmes to get some well deserved sleep and decided to check his emails once more. Among the messages, a new one stuck out. It looked exactly like the others that had come through the website he'd left his advert on, and it read:

> Dear John,  
>  Renting seems a little desperate. My offer still stands.
> 
> xx M.
> 
> p.s. I might settle for renting. I hear he does mean blow jobs. Can you confirm?

John's brows drew together as he read and his fingers curled into fists. He typed an angrily worded reply to the email, but the message bounced back. He ended up deleting M's message and decided he would pretend he'd never seen it. Holmes certainly would never hear of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment if you can spare a moment. That would make me very happy. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes, English is not my first language. I do my best, but feel free to correct my grammar or knowledge and point out any typos you might find. I'll be updating the tags and characters more as they come along.
> 
> Please see my profile for update info.
> 
> (no, I absolutely do not find slavery acceptable in the real world)


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